j 


1 , 


IMPRESSIONS  OF 

THEOPHRASTUS   SUCH 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

I.  LOOKING  INWARD, 7 

II.  LOOKING  BACKWARD,          .......     18 

III.  How  WE  ENCOURAGE  RESEARCH,       .         .         .         .         .81 

IV.  A  MAN  SURPRISED  AT  His  ORIGINALITY,           .         .         .44 
V.  A  Too  DEFERENTIAL  MAN, 62 

VI.  ONLY  TEMPER, 69 

VII.  A  POLITICAL  MOLECULE,    .......    66 

VIII.  THE  WATCH-DOG  OF  KNOWLEDGE, 70 

IX.  A  HALF-BREED,          .        .        .        .        .         .        .        .77 

X.  DEBASING-  THE  MORAL  CURRENCY,     .         .         .         .         .84 

XI.  THE  WASP  CREDITED  WITH  THE  HONEYCOMB,  .         .         .90 

XII.  "So  YOUNG," .101 

XIII.  How   WE    COME  TO    GIVE    OURSELVES   FALSE   TESTIMO- 

NIALS, AND  BELIEVE  IN  THEM,    .....  106 

XIV.  THE  Too  READY  WRITER, 114 

XV.  DISEASES  OF  SMALL  AUTHORSHIP,      .... 

XVI.  MORAL  SWINDLERS,     ....... 

XVII.  SHADOWS  OF  THE  COMING  RACE,        .... 

XVIII.  THE  MODERN  HEP  I  HEP  !  HBP  ! 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


THEOPHKASTUS  SUCH. 

Griff  House  (where  George  Eliot  passed  her  girlhood  daya).Frontis. 

PAGE 

Farm  Offices,  Griff  (surroundings  of  Geo.  Eliot's  girlhood  home)  139 


Theophrastus  Such. 


LOOKING  INWARD. 

IT  is  my  habit  to  give  an  account  to  myself  of  the  charac- 
ters I  meet  with :  can  I  give  any  true  account  of  my  own?  I 
am  a  bachelor,  without  domestic  distractions  of  any  sort,  and 
have  all  my  life  been  an  attentive  companion  to  myself,  flat- 
tering my  nature  agreeably  on  plausible  occasions,  reviling  it 
rather  bitterly  when  it  mortified  me,  and  in  general  remem- 
bering its  doings  and  sufferings  with  a  tenacity  which  is  too 
apt  to  raise  surprise  if  not  disgust  at  the  careless  inaccuracy 
of  my  acquaintances,  who  impute  to  me  opinions  I  never  held, 
express  their  desire  to  convert  me  to  my  favorite  ideas,  forget 
whether  I  have  ever  been  to  the  East,  and  are  capable  of 
being  three  several  times  astonished  at  my  never  having  told 
them  before  of  my  accident  in  the  Alps,  causing  me  the  ner- 
vous shock  which  has  ever  since  notably  diminished  my  di- 
gestive powers.  Surely  I  ought  to  know  myself  better  than 
these  indifferent  outsiders  can  know  me;  nay,  better  even 
than  my  intimate  friends,  to  whom  I  have  never  breathed 
those  items  of  my  inward  experience  which  have  chiefly 
shaped  my  life. 

Yet  I  have  often  been  forced  into  the  reflection  that  even 
the  acquaintances  who  are  as  forgetful  of  my  biography  and 
tenets  as  they  would  be  if  I  were  a  dead  philosopher  are 
probably  aware  of  certain  points  in  me  which  may  not  be  in- 
cluded in  my  most  active  suspicion.  We  sing  an  exquisite 
passage  out  of  tune  ?nd  innocently  repeat  it  for  the  greater 
pleasure  of  our  hearers.  Who  can  be  aware  of  what  his  for- 


8  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

eign  accent  is  in  the  ears  of  a  native?  And  how  can  a  man  be 
conscious  of  that  dull  perception  which  causes  him  to  mistake 
altogether  what  will  make  him  agreeable  to  a  particular  wom- 
an, and  to  persevere  eagerly  in  a  behavior  which  she  is  pri- 
vately recording  against  him?  I  have  had  some  confidences 
from  my  female  friends  as  to  their  opinion  of  other  men 
whom  I  have  observed  trying  to  make  themselves  amiable, 
and  it  has  occurred  to  me  that,  though  I  can  hardly  be  so 
blundering  as  Lippus  and  the  rest  of  those  mistaken  candidates 
for  favor  whom  I  have  seen  ruining  their  chance  by  a  too 
elaborate  personal  canvass,  I  must  still  come  under  the  com- 
mon fatality  of  mankind  and  share  the  liability  to  be  absurd 
without  knowing  that  I  am  absurd.  It  is  in  the  nature  of 
foolish  reasoning  to  seem  good  to  the  foolish  reasoner.  Hence 
with  all  possible  study  of  myself,  with  all  possible  effort  to 
escape  from  the  pitiable  illusion  which  makes  men  laugh, 
shriek,  or  curl  the  lip  at  Folly's  likeness,  in  total  unconscious- 
ness that  it  resembles  themselves,  I  am  obliged  to  recognize 
that  while  there  are  secrets  in  me  unguessed  by  others,  these 
others  have  certain  items  of  knowledge  about  the  extent  of  my 
powers  and  the  figure  I  make  with  them,  which  in  turn  are 
secrets  uuguessed  by  me.  When  I  was  a  lad  I  danced  a  horn- 
pipe with  arduous  scrupulosity,  and  while  suffering  pangs  of 
pallid  shyness  was  yet  proud  of  my  superiority  as  a  dancing 
pupil,  imagining  for  myself  a  high  place  in  the  estimation  of 
beholders ;  but  I  can  now  picture  the  amusement  they  had  in 
the  incongruity  of  my  solemn  face  and  ridiculous  legs.  What 
sort  of  hornpipe  am  I  dancing  now? 

Thus  if  I  laugh  at  you,  O  fellow-men !  if  I  trace  with  curi- 
ous interest  your  labyrinthine  self-delusions,  note  the  incon- 
sistencies in  your  zealous  adhesions,  and  smile  at  your  helpless 
endeavors  in  a  rashly  chosen  part,  it  is  not  that  I  feel  myself 
aloof  from  you :  the  more  intimately  I  seem  to  discern  your 
weaknesses,  the  stronger  to  me  is  the  proof  that  I  share  them. 
How  otherwise  could  I  get  the  discernment? — for  even  what 
we  are  averse  to,  what  we  vow  not  to  entertain,  must  have 
shaped  or  shadowed  itself  within  us  as  a  possibility  before  we 
can  think  of  exorcising  it.  No  man  can  know  his  brother 
simply  as  a  spectator.  Dear  blunderers,  I  am  one  of  you.  I 


LOOKING  INWARD.  0 

wince  at  the  fact,  but  I  am  not  ignorant  of  it,  that  I  too  am 
laughable  on  unsuspected  occasions ;  nay,  in  the  very  tempest 
and  whirlwind  of  my  anger,  I  include  myself  under  iny  own 
indignation.  If  the  human  race  has  a  bad  reputation,  I  per- 
ceive that  I  cannot  escape  being  compromised.  And  thus 
while  I  carry  in  myself  the  key  to  other  men's  experience,  it 
is  only  by  observing  others  that  I  can  so  far  correct  my  self- 
ignorance  as  to  arrive  at  the  certainty  that  I  am  liable  to 
commit  myself  unawares  and  to  manifest  some  incompetency 
which  I  know  no  more  of  than  the  blind  man  knows  of  his  im- 
age in  the  glass. 

Is  it  then  possible  to  describe  one's  self  at  once  faithfully 
and  fully  ?  In  all  autobiography  there  is,  nay,  ought  to  be, 
an  incompleteness  which  may  have  the  effect  of  falsity.  We 
are  each  of  us  bound  to  reticence  by  the  piety  we  owe  to  those 
who  have  been  nearest  to  us  and  have  had  a  mingled  influence 
over  our  lives;  by  the  fellow-feeling  which  should  restrain  us 
from  turning  our  volunteered  and  picked  confessions  into  an 
act  of  accusation  against  others,  who  have  no  chance  of  vindi- 
cating themselves ;  and  most  of  all  by  that  reverence  for  the 
higher  efforts  of  our  common  nature  which  commands  us  to 
bury  its  lowest  fatalities,  its  invincible  remnants  of  the  brute, 
its  most  agonizing  struggles  with  temptation,  in  unbroken 
silence.  But  the  incompleteness  which  comes  of  self-igno- 
rance may  be  compensated  by  self-betrayal.  A  man  who  is 
affected  to  tears  in  dwelling  on  the  generosity  of  his  own  sen- 
timents makes  me  aware  of  several  things  not  included  under 
those  terms.  Who  has  sinned  more  against  those  three  dute- 
ous reticences  than  Jean  Jacques?  Yet  half  our  impressions 
of  his  character  come  not  from  what  he  means  to  convey,  but 
from  what  he  unconsciously  enables  us  to  discern. 

This  naive  veracity  of  self-presentation  is  attainable  by  the 
slenderest  talent  on  the  most  trivial  occasions.  The  least 
lucid  and  impressive  of  orators  may  be  perfectly  successful  in 
showing  us  the  weak  points  of  his  grammar.  Hence  I  too 
may  be  so  far  like  Jean  Jacques  as  to  communicate  more  than 
I  am  aware  of.  I  am  not  indeed  writing  an  autobiography, 
or  pretending  to  give  an  unreserved  description  of  myself,  but 
only  offering  some  slight  confessions  in  an  apologetic  light,  to 


10  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

indicate  that  if  in  rny  absence  you  dealt  as  freely  with  my  un- 
conscious weaknesses  as  I  have  dealt  with  the  unconscious 
weaknesses  of  others,  I  should  not  feel  myself  warranted  by 
common-sense  in  regarding  your  freedom  of  observation  as  an 
exceptional  case  of  evil-speaking;  or  as  malignant  interpreta- 
tion of  a  character  which  really  offers  no  handle  to  just  ob- 
jection ;  or  even  as  an  unfair  use  for  your  amusement  of  dis- 
advantages which,  since  they  are  mine,  should  be  regarded 
with  more  than  ordinary  tenderness.  Let  me  at  least  try  to 
feel  myself  in  the  ranks  with  my  fellow-men.  It  is  true  that 
I  would  rather  not  hear  either  your  well-founded  ridicule  or 
your  judicious  strictures.  Though  not  averse  to  finding  fault 
with  myself,  and  conscious  of  deserving  lashes,  I  like  to  keep 
the  scourge  in  my  own  discriminating  hand.  I  never  felt  my- 
self sufficiently  meritorious  to  like  being  hated  as  a  proof  of 
my  superiority,  or  so  thirsty  for  improvement  as  to  desire  that 
all  my  acquaintances  should  give  me  their  candid  opinion  of 
me.  I  really  do  not  want  to  learn  from  my  enemies :  I  prefer 
having  none  to  learn  from.  Instead  of  being  glad  when  men 
use  me  despitefully,  I  wish  they  Avould  behave  better  and  find 
a  more  amiable  occupation  for  their  intervals  of  business.  In 
brief,  after  a  close  intimacy  with  myself  for  a  longer  period 
than  I  choose  to  mention,  I  find  within  me  a  permanent  long- 
ing for  approbation,  sympathy,  and  love. 

Yet  I  am  a  bachelor,  and  the  person  I  love  best  has  never 
loved  me,  or  known  that  I  loved  her.  Though  continually  in 
society,  and  caring  about  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  my  neigh- 
bors, I  feel  myself,  so  far  as  my  personal  lot  is  concerned, 
uncared  for  and  alone.  "  Your  own  fault,  my  dear  fellow !  " 
said  Minutius  Felix,  one  day  that  I  had  incautiously  men- 
tioned this  uninteresting  fact.  And  he  was  right — in  senses 
other  than  he  intended.  Why  should  I  expect  to  be  admired, 
and  have  my  company  doted  on?  I  have  done  no  services  to 
my  country  beyond  those  of  every  peaceable  orderly  citizen ; 
and  as  to  intellectual  contribution,  my  only  published  work 
was  a  failure,  so  that  I  am  spoken  of  to  inquiring  beholders 
as  "  the  author  of  a  book  you  have  probably  not  seen. "  (The 
work  was  a  humorous  romance,  unique  in  its  kind,  and  I  am 
told  is  much  tasted  in  a  Cherokee  translation,  where  the  jokes 


LOOKING  INWARD.  11 

are  rendered  with  all  the  serious  eloquence  characteristic  of 
the  Red  races.)  This  sort  of  distinction,  as  a  writer  nobody 
is  likely  to  have  read,  can  hardly  counteract  an  indistinctness 
in  my  articulation,  which  the  best-intentioned  loudness  will 
not  remedy.  Then,  in  some  quarters  my  awkward  feet  are 
against  me,  the  length  of  my  upper  lip,  and  an  inveterate  way 
I  have  of  walking  with  my  head  foremost  and  my  chin  project- 
ing. One  can  become  only  too  well  aware  of  such  things  by 
looking  in  the  glass,  or  in  that  other  mirror  held  up  to  nature 
in  the  frank  opinions  of  street-boys,  or  of  our  Free  People 
travelling  by  excursion  train ;  and  no  doubt  they  account  for 
the  half-suppressed  smile  which  I  have  observed  on  some  fair 
faces  when  I  have  first  been  presented  before  them.  This  di- 
rect perceptive  judgment  is  not  to  be  argued  against.  But  I 
am  tempted  to  remonstrate  when  the  physical  points  I  have 
mentioned  are  apparently  taken  to  warrant  unfavorable  infer- 
ences concerning  my  mental  quickness.  With  all  the  increas- 
ing uncertainty  which  modern  progress  has  thrown  over  the 
relations  of  mind  and  body,  it  seems  tolerably  clear  that  wit 
cannot  be  seated  in  the  upper  lip,  and  that  the  balance  of  the 
haunches  in  walking  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  subtle  dis- 
crimination of  ideas.  Yet  strangers  evidently  do  not  expect 
me  to  make  a  clever  observation,  and  my  good  things  are  as 
unnoticed  as  if  they  were  anonymous  pictures.  I  have  in- 
deed had  the  mixed  satisfaction  of  finding  that  when  they 
were  appropriated  by  some  one  else  they  were  found  remark- 
able and  even  brilliant.  It  is  to  be  borne  in  mind  that  I  am 
not  rich,  have  neither  stud  nor  cellar,  and  no  very  high  con- 
nections such  as  give  to  a  look  of  imbecility  a  certain  prestige 
of  inheritance  through  a  titled  line ;  just  as  "  the  Austrian  lip  " 
confers  a  grandeur  of  historical  associations  on  a  kind  of  fea- 
ture which  might  make  us  reject  an  advertising  footman.  I 
have  now  and  then  done  harm  to  a  good  cause  by  speaking  for 
it  in  public",  and  have  discovered  too  late  that  my  attitude  on 
the  occasion  would  more  suitably  have  been  that  of  negative 
beneficence.  Is  it  really  to  the  advantage  of  an  opinion  that 
I  should  be  known  to  hold  it?  And  as  to  the  force  of  my  ar- 
guments, that  is  a  secondary  consideration  with  audiences  who 
have  given  a  new  scope  to  the  ex  pede  Herculem  principle,  and 


12  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

from  awkward  feet  infer  awkward  fallacies.  Once,  when  zeal 
lifted  me  on  my  legs,  I  distinctly  heard  an  enlightened  artisan 
remark,  "  Here's  a  rum  cut!  " — and  doubtless  he  reasoned  in 
the  same  way  as  the  elegant  Glycera  when  she  politely  puts 
on  an  air  of  listening  to  me,  but  elevates  her  eyebrows  and 
chills  her  glance  in  sign  of  predetermined  neutrality:  both 
have  their  reasons  for  judging  the  quality  of  my  speech  be- 
forehand. 

This  sort  of  reception  to  a  man  of  affectionate  disposition, 
who  has  also  the  innocent  vanity  of  desiring  to  be  agreeable, 
has  naturally  a  depressing  if  not  embittering  tendency ;  and 
in  early  life  I  began  to  seek  for  some  consoling  point  of  view, 
some  warrantable  method  of  softening  the  hard  peas  I  had  to 
walk  on,  some  comfortable  fanaticism  which  might  supply  the 
needed  self-satisfaction.  At  one  time  I  dwelt  much  on  the 
idea  of  compensation ;  trying  to  believe  that  I  was  all  the 
wiser  for  my  bruised  vanity,  that  I  had  the  higher  place  in  the 
true  spiritual  scale,  and  even  that  a  day  might  come  when 
some  visible  triumph  would  place  me  in  the  French  heaven  of 
having  the  laughers  on  my  side.  But  I  presently  perceived 
that  this  was  a  very  odious  sort  of  self -cajolery.  Was  it  in 
the  least  true  that  I  was  wiser  than  several  of  my  friends 
who  made  an  excellent  figure,  and  were  perhaps  praised  a 
little  beyond  their  merit?  Is  the  ugly  unready  man  in  the 
corner,  outside  the  current  of  conversation,  really  likely  to 
have  a  fairer  view  of  things  than  the  agreeable  talker,  whose 
success  strikes  the  unsuccessful  as  a  repulsive  example  of  for- 
wardness and  conceit?  And  as  to  compensation  in  future 
years,  would  the  fact  that  I  myself  got  it  reconcile  me  to  an 
order  of  things  in  which  I  could  see  a  multitude  with  as  bad  a 
share  as  mine,  who,  instead  of  getting  their  corresponding 
compensation,  were  getting  beyond  the  reach  of  it  in  old  age? 
What  could  be  more  contemptible  than  the  mood  of  mind 
which  makes  a  man  measure  the  justice  of  divine  or  human 
law  by  the  agreeableness  of  his  own  shadow  and  the  ample 
satisfaction  of  his  own  desires? 

I  dropped  a  form  of  consolation  which  seemed  to  be  encour- 
aging me  in  the  persuasion  that  my  discontent  was  the  chief 
evil  in  the  world,  and  my  benefit  the  soul  of  good  in  that  evil. 


LOOKING  INWARD. 

May  there  not  be  at  least  a  partial  release  from  the  impris- 
oning verdict  that  a  man's  philosophy  is  the  formula  of  his 
personality?  In  certain  branches  of  science  we  can  ascertain 
our  personal  equation,  the  measure  of  difference  between  our 
own  judgments  and  an  average  standard:  may  there  not  be 
some  corresponding  correction  of  our  personal  partialities  in 
moral  theorizing?  If  a  squint  or  other  ocular  defect  disturbs 
my  vision,  I  can  get  instructed  in  the  fact,  be  made  aware 
that  my  condition  is  abnormal,  and  either  through  spectacles 
or  diligent  imagination  I  can  learn  the  average  appearance  of 
things:  is  there  no  remedy  or  corrective  for  that  inward 
squint  which  consists  in  a  dissatisfied  egoism  or  other  want  of 
mental  balance?  In  my  conscience  I  saw  that  the  bias  of  per- 
sonal discontent  was  just  as  misleading  and  odious  as  the  bias 
of  self-satisfaction.  Whether  we  look  through  the  rose-colored 
glass  or  the  indigo,  we  are  equally  far  from  the  hues  which 
the  healthy  human  eye  beholds  in  heaven  above  and  earth 
below.  I  began  to  dread  ways  of  consoling  which  were  really 
a  flattering  of  native  illusions,  a  feeding-up  into  monstros- 
ity of  an  inward  growth  already  disproportionate ;  to  get  an 
especial  scorn  for  that  scorn  of  mankind  which  is  a  transmuted 
disappointment  of  preposterous  claims ;  to  watch  with  peculiar 
alarm  lest  what  I  called  my  philosophic  estimate  of  the  human 
lot  in  general  should  be  a  mere  prose  lyric  expressing  my 
own  pain  and  consequent  bad  temper.  The  standing-ground 
worth  striving  after  seemed  to  be  some  Delectable  Mountain, 
whence  I  could  see  things  in  proportions  as  little  as  possible 
determined  by  that  self-partiality  which  certainly  plays  a 
necessary  part  in  our  bodily  sustenance,  but  has  a  starving 
effect  on  the  mind. 

Thus  I  finally  gave  up  any  attempt  to  make  out  that  I  pre- 
ferred cutting  a  bad  figure,  and  that  I  liked  to  be  despised, 
because  in  this  way  I  was  getting  more  virtuous  than  my  suc- 
cessful rivals;  and  I  have  long  looked  with  suspicion  on  all 
views  which  are  recommended  as  peculiarly  consolatory  to 
wounded  vanity  or  other  personal  disappointment.  The  con- 
solations of  egoism  are  simply  a  change  of  attitude  or  a  resort 
to  a  new  kind  of  diet  which  soothes  and  fattens  it.  Fed  in 
this  way  it  is  apt  to  become  a  monstrous  spiritual  pride,  or  a 


14  ~THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

chuckling  satisfaction  that  the  final  balance  will  not  be  against 
us,  but  against  those  who  now  eclipse  us.  Examining  the 
world  in  order  to  find  consolation  is  very  much  like  looking 
carefully  over  the  pages  of  a  great  book  in  order  to  find  our 
own  name,  if  not  in  the  text,  at  least  in  a  laudatory  note : 
whether  we  find  what  we  want  or  not,  our  preoccupation  has 
hindered  us  from  a  true  knowledge  of  the  contents.  But  an 
attention  fixed  on  the  main  theme  or  various  matter  of  the 
book  would  deliver  us  from  the  slavish  subjection  to  our  own 
self-importance.  And  I  had  the  mighty  volume  of  the  world 
before  me.  Nay,  I  had  the  struggling  action  of  a  myriad 
lives  around  me,  each  single  life  as  dear  to  itself  as  mine  to 
me.  Was  there  no  escape  here  from  this  stupidity  of  a  mur- 
muring self -occupation  ?  Clearly  enough,  if  anything  hindered 
my  thought  from  rising  to  the  force  of  passionately  interested 
contemplation,  or  my  poor  pent-up  pond  of  sensitiveness  from 
widening  into  a  beneficent  river  of  •  sympathy,  it  was  my  own 
dulness;  and  though  I  could  not  make  myself  the  reverse  of 
shallow  all  at  once,  I  had  at  least  learned  where  I  had  better 
turn  my  attention. 

Something  came  of  this  alteration  in  my  point  of  view, 
though  I  admit  that  the  result  is  of  no  striking  kind.  It  is 
unnecessary  for  me  to  utter  modest  denials,  since  none  have 
assured  me  that  I  have  a  vast  intellectual  scope,  or — what  is 
more  surprising,  considering  I  have  done  so  little — that  I 
might,  if  I  chose,  surpass  any  distinguished  man  whom  they 
wish  to  depreciate.  I  have  not  attained  any  lofty  peak  of 
magnanimity,  nor  would  I  trust  beforehand  in  my  capability 
of  meeting  a  severe  demand  for  moral  heroism.  But  that  I 
have  at  least  succeeded  in  establishing  a  habit  of  mind  which 
keeps  watch  against  my  self-partiality  and  promotes  a  fair 
consideration  of  what  touches  the  feelings  or  the  fortunes  of 
my  neighbors  seems  to  be  proved  by  the  ready  confidence 
with  which  men  and  women  appeal  to  my  interest  in  their  ex- 
perience. It  is  gratifying  to  one  who  would  above  all  things 
avoid  the  insanity  of  fancying  himself  a  more  momentous  or 
touching  object  than  he  really  is  to  find  that  nobody  expects 
from  him  the  least  sign  of  such  mental  aberration,  and  that 
he  is  evidently  held  capable  of  listening  to  all  kinds  of  per- 


LOOKING  INWARD  15 

sonal  outpouring  without  the  least  disposition  to  become  com- 
municative in  the  same  way.  This  confirmation  of  the  hope 
that  my  bearing  is  not  that  of  the  self-flattering  lunatic  is 
given  me  in  ample  measure.  My  acquaintances  tell  me  unre- 
servedly of  their  triumphs  and  their  piques ;  explain  their  pur- 
poses at  length,  and  reassure  me  with  cheerfulness  as  to  their 
chances  of  success ;  insist  on  their  theories  and  accept  me  as 
a  dummy  with  whom  they  rehearse  their  side  of  future  dis- 
cussions; unwind  their  coiled-up  griefs  in  relation  to  their 
husbands,  or  recite  to  me  examples  of  feminine  incomprehen- 
sibleness  as  typified  in  their  wive"  •,  mention  frequently  the 
fair  applause  which  their  merits  have  wrung  from  some  per- 
sons, and  the  attacks  to  which  certain  oblique  motives  have 
stimulated  others.  At  the  time  when  I  was  less  free  from 
superstition  about  my  own  power  of  charming,  I  occasionally, 
in  the  glow  of  sympathy  which  embraced  me  and  .my  confid- 
ing friend  on  the  subject  of  his  satisfaction  or  resentment,  was 
urged  to  hint  at  a  corresponding  experience  in  my  own  case ; 
but  the  signs  of  a  rapidly  lowering  pulse  and  spreading 
nervous  depression  in  my  previously  vivacious  interlocutor 
warned  me  that  I  was  acting  on  that  dangerous  misreading, 
"Do  as  you  are  done  by."  Recalling  the  true  version  of  the 
golden  rule,  I  could  not  wish  that  others  should  lower  my 
spirits  as  I  was  lowering  my  friend's.  After  several  times 
obtaining  the  same  result  from  a  like  experiment  in  which  all 
the  circumstances  were  varied  except  my  own  personality,  I 
took  it  as  an  established  inference  that  these  fitful  signs  of  a 
lingering  belief  in  my  own  importance  were  generally  felt  to 
be  abnormal,  and  were  something  short  of  that  sanity  which  I 
aimed  to  secure.  Clearness  on  this  point  is  not  without  its 
gratifications,  as  I  have  said.  While  my  desire  to  explain 
myself  in  private  ears  has  been  quelled,  the  habit  of  getting 
interested  in  the  experience  of  others  has  been  continually 
gathering  strength,  and  I  am  really  at  the  point  of  finding 
that  this  world  would  be  worth  living  in  without  any  lot  of 
one's  own.  Is  it  not  possible  for  me  to  enjoy  the  scenery  of 
the  earth  without  saying  to  myself,  I  have  a  cabbage-garden 
in  it?  But  this  sounds  like  the  lunacy  of  fancying  one's  self 
everybody  else  and  being  unable  to  play  one's  own  part  de- 


16  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

cently — another  form  of  the  disloyal  attempt  to  be  independ- 
ent of  the  common  lot,  and  to  live  without  a  sharing  of  pain. 
Perhaps  I  have  made  self -betrayals  enough  already  to  show 
that  I  have  not  arrived  at  that  non-human  independence.  My 
conversational  reticences  about  myself  turn  into  garrulousness 
on  paper — as  the  sea-lion  plunges  and  swims  the  more  ener- 
getically because  his  limbs  are  of  a  sort  to  make  him  sham- 
bling on  land.  The  act  of  writing,  in  spite  of  past  experience, 
brings  with  it  the  vague,  delightful  illusion  of  an  audience 
nearer  to  my  idiom  than  the  Cherokees,  and  more  numerous 
than  the  visionary  One  for  whom  many  authors  have  declared 
themselves  willing  to  go  through  the  pleasing  punishment  of 
publication.  My  illusion  is  of  a  more  liberal  kind,  and  I  im- 
agine a  far-off,  hazy,  multitudinous  assemblage,  as  in  a  pic- 
ture of  Paradise,  making  an  approving  chorus  to  the  sentences 
and  paragraphs  of  which  I  myself  particularly  enjoy  the  writ- 
ing. The  haze  is  a  necessary  condition.  If  any  physiognomy 
becomes  distinct  in  the  foreground,  it  is  fatal.  The  counte- 
nance is  sure  to  be  one  bent  on  discountenancing  my  innocent 
intentions:  it  is  pale-eyed,  incapable  of  being  am  used -when  I 
am  amused  or  indignant  at  what  makes  me  indignant  j  it 
stares  at  my  presumption,  pities  my  ignorance,  or  is  mani- 
festly preparing  to  expose  the  various  instances  in  which  I  un- 
consciously disgrace  myself.  I  shudder  at  this  too  corporeal 
auditor,  and  turn  toward  another  point  of  the  compass  where 
the  haze  is  unbroken.  Why  should  I  not  indulge  this  remain- 
ing illusion,  since  I  do  not  take  my  approving  choral  paradise 
as  a  warrant  for  setting  the  press  to  work  again  and  making 
some  thousand  sheets  of  superior  paper  unsalable?  I  leave 
my  manuscripts  to  a  judgment  outside  my  imagination,  but  I 
will  not  ask  to  hear  it,  or  request  my  friend  to  pronounce,  be- 
fore I  have  been  buried  decently,  what  he  really  thinks  of  my 
parts,  and  to  state  candidly  whether  my  papers  would  be  most 
usefully  applied  in  lighting  the  cheerful  domestic  fire.  It  is 
too  probable  that  he  will  be  exasperated  at  the  trouble  I  have 
given  him  of  reading  them ;  but  the  consequent  clearness  and 
vivacity  with  which  he  could  demonstrate  to  me  that  the  fault 
of  my  manuscripts,  as  of  my  one  published  work,  is  simply 
flatness,  and  not  that  surpassing  subtilty  which  is  the  prefer- 


LOOKING  INWARD.  IT 

able  groun  of  popular  neglect — this  verdict,  however  instruct- 
ively expressed,  is  a  portion  of  earthly  discipline  of  which  I 
will  not  beseech  my  friend  to  be  the  instrument.  Other  per- 
sons, I  am  aware,  have  not  the  same  cowardly  shrinking  from 
a  candid  opinion  of  their  performances,  and  are  even  impor- 
tunately eager  for  it;  but  I  have  convinced  myself  in  numer- 
ous cases  that  such  exposers  of  their  own  back  to  the  smiter 
were  of  too  hopeful  a  disposition  to  believe  in  the  scourge,  and 
really  trusted  in  a  pleasant  anointing,  an  outpouring  of  balm 
without  any  previous  wounds.  I  am  of  a  less  trusting  dispo- 
sition, and  will  only  ask  my  friend  to  use  his  judgment  in  in- 
suring me  against  posthumous  mistake. 

Thus  I  make  myself  a  charter  to  write,  and  keep  the  pleas- 
ing, inspiring  illusion  of  being  listened  to,  though  I  may  some- 
times write  about  myself.  What  I  have  already  said  on  this 
too  familiar  theme  has  been  meant  only  as  a  preface,  to  show 
that  in  noting  the  weaknesses  of  my  acquaintances  I  am  con- 
scious of  my  fellowship  with  them.  That  a  gratified  sense  of 
superiority  is  at  the  root  of  barbarous  laughter  may  be  at  least 
half  the  truth.  But  there  is  a  loving  laughter  in  which  the 
only  recognized  superiority  is  that  of  the  ideal  self,  the  God 
within,  holding  the  mirror  and  the  scourge  for  our  own  petti- 
ness as  well  as  our  neighbors'. 
2 


n. 

LOOKING   BACKWAED. 

MOST  of  us  who  have  had  decent  parents  would  shrink  from 
wishing  that  our  father  and  mother  had  been  somebody  else 
whom  we  never  knew;  yet  it  is  held  no  impiety,  rather  a 
graceful  mark  of  instruction,  for  a  man  to  wail  that  he  was 
not  the  son  of  another  age  and  another  nation,  of  which  also 
he  knows  nothing  except  through  the  easy  process  of  an  im- 
perfect imagination  and  a  flattering  fancy. 

But  the  period  thus  looked  back  on  with  a  purely  admiring 
regret,  as  perfect  enough  to  suit  a  superior  mind,  is  always  a 
long  way  off;  the  desirable  contemporaries  are  hardly  nearer 
than  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  most  likely  they  are  the  fellow-citi- 
zens of  Pericles,  or,  best  of  all,  of  the  JEolic  lyrists  whose 
sparse  remains  suggest  a  comfortable  contrast  with  our  re- 
dundance. No  impassioned  personage  wishes  he  had  been 
born  in  the  age  of  Pitt,  that  his  ardent  youth  might  have 
eaten  the  dearest  bread,  dressed  itself  with  the  longest  coat- 
tails  and  the  shortest  waist,  or  heard  the  loudest  grumbling 
at  the  heaviest  war-taxes ;  and  it  would  be  really  something 
original  in  polished  verse  if  one  of  our  young  writers  de- 
clared he  would  gladly  be  turned  eighty-five  that  he  might 
have  known  the  joy  and  pride  of  being  an  Englishman  when 
there  were  fewer  reforms  and  plenty  of  highwaymen,  fewer 
discoveries  and  more  faces  pitted  with  the  small-pox,  when 
laws  were  made  to  keep  up  the  price  of  corn,  and  the  trouble- 
some Irish  were  more  miserable.  Three-quarters  of  a  century 
ago  is  not  a  distance  that  lends  much  enchantment  to  the  view. 
We  are  familiar  with  the  average  men  of  that  period,  and  are 
still  consciously  encumbered  with  its  bad  contrivances  and 
mistaken  acts.  The  lords  and  gentlemen  painted  by  young 
Lawrence  talked  and  wrote  their  nonsense  in  a  tongue  we  thor- 


LOOKING  BACKWARD.  19 

oughly  understand ;  hence  their  times  are  not  much  flattered, 
not  much  glorified  by  the  yearnings  of  that  modern  sect  of 
Flagellants  who  make  a  ritual  of  lashing — not  themselves,  but 
— all  their  neighbors.  To  me,  however,  that  paternal  time, 
the  time  of  my  father's  youth,  never  seemed  prosaic,  for  it 
came  to  my  imagination  first  through  his  memories,  which 
made  a  wondrous  perspective  to  my  little  daily  world  of  dis- 
covery. And  for  my  part  I  can  call  no  age  absolutely  unpo- 
etic :  how  should  it  be  so,  since  there  are  always  children  to 
whom  the  acorns  and  the  swallow's  eggs  are  a  wonder,  always 
those  human  passions  and  fatalities  through  which  Garrick  as 
Hamlet  in  bobwig  and  knee-breeches  moved  his  audience  more 
than  some  have  since  done  in  velvet  tunic  and  plume?  But 
every  age  since  the  golden  may  be  made  more  or  less  prosaic 
by  minds  that  attend  only  to  its  vulgar  and  sordid  elements, 
of  which  there  was  always  an  abundance  even  in  Greece  and 
Italy,  the  favorite  realms  of  the  retrospective  optimists.  To 
be  quite  fair  toward  the  ages,  a  little  ugliness  as  well  as 
beauty  must  be  allowed  to  each  of  them,  a  little  implicit 
poetry  even  to  those  which  echoed  loudest  with  servile,  pom- 
pous, and  trivial  prose. 

Such  impartiality  is  not  in  vogue  at  present.  If  we  ac- 
knowledge our  obligation  to  the  ancients,  it  is  hardly  to  be 
done  without  some  flouting  of  our  contemporaries,  who  with 
all  their  faults  must  be  allowed  the  merit  of  keeping  the  world 
habitable  for  the  refined  eulogists  of  the  blameless  past.  One 
wonders  whether  the  remarkable  originators  who  first  had  the 
notion  of  digging  wells,  or  of  churning  for  butter,  and  who 
were  certainly  very  useful  to  their  own  time  as  well  as  ours, 
were  left  quite  free  from  invidious  comparison  with  predeces- 
sors who  let  the  water  and  the  milk  alone,  or  whether  some 
rhetorical  nomad,  as  he  stretched  himself  on  the  grass  with  a 
good  appetite  for  contemporary  butter,  became  loud  on  the 
virtue  of  ancestors  who  were  uncorrupted  by  the  produce  of 
the  cow ;  nay,  whether  in  a  high  flight  of  imaginative  self-sac- 
rifice (after  swallowing  the  butter)  he  even  wished  himself 
earlier  born  and  already  eaten  for  the  sustenance  of  a  genera- 
tion more  nai've  than  his  own. 

I  have  often  had  the  fool's  hectic  of  wishing  about  the  un- 


20  THEOPHRASTU8  SUCH. 

alterable,  but  with  me  that  useless  exercise  has  turned  chiefly 
on  the  conception  of  a  different  self,  and  not,  as  it  usually 
does  in  literature,  on  the  advantage  of  having  been  born  in  a 
different  age,  and  more  especially  in  one  where  life  is  imag- 
ined to  have  been  altogether  majestic  and  graceful.  With  my 
present  abilities,  external  proportions,  and  generally  small 
provision  for  ecstatic  enjoyment,  where  is  the  ground  for  con- 
fidence that  I  should  have  had  a  preferable  career  in  such  an 
epoch  of  society?  An  age  in  which  every  department  has  its 
awkward-squad  seems  in  my  mind's  eye  to  suit  me  better.  I 
might  have  wandered  by  the  Strymon  under  Philip  and  Al- 
exander without  throwing  any  new  light  on  method  or  organ- 
izing the  sum  of  human  knowledge;  on  the  other  hand,  I 
might  have  objected  to  Aristotle  as  too  much  of  a  systematize!-, 
and  have  preferred  the  freedom  of  a  little  self-contradiction 
as  offering  more  chances  of  truth.  I  gather,  too,  from  the  un- 
deniable testimony  of  his  disciple  Theophrastus  that  there 
were  bores,  ill-bred  persons,  and  detractors  even  in  Athens, 
of  species  remarkably  corresponding  to  the  English,  and  not 
yet  made  endurable  by  being  classic;  and,  altogether,  with 
my  present  fastidious  nostril,  I  feel  that  I  am  the  better  off 
for  possessing  Athenian  life  solely  as  an  inodorous  fragment 
of  antiquity.  As  to  Sappho' s  Mitylene,  while  I  am  convinced 
that  the  Lesbian  capital  held  some  plain  men  of  middle  stature 
and  slow  conversational  powers,  the  addition  of  myself  to 
their  number,  though  clad  in  the  majestic  folds  of  the  hima- 
tion  and  without  cravat,  would  hardly  have  made  a  sensation 
among  the  accomplished  fair  ones  who  were  so  precise  in  ad- 
justing their  own  drapery  about  their  delicate  ankles.  Whereas 
by  being  another  sort  of  person  in  the  present  age  I  might 
have  given  it  some  needful  theoretic  clew.  Or  I  might  have 
poured  forth  poetic  strains  which  would  have  anticipated  the- 
ory and  seemed  a  voice  from 

"the  prophetic  soul 
Of  the  wide  world  dreaming  of  things  to  come." 

Or  I  might  have  been  one  of  those  benignant  lovely  souls  who, 
-yithout  astonishing  the  public  and  posterity,  make  a  happy 
difference  in  the  lives  close  around  them,  and  in  this  way  lift 


LOOKING  BACKWARD.  21 

the  average  of  earthly  joy.  la  some  form  or  other  I  might 
have  been  so  filled  from  the  store  of  universal  existence  that 
I  should  have  been  freed  from  that  empty  wishing  which  is 
like  a  child's  cry  to  be  inside  a  golden  cloud,  its  imagination 
being  too  ignorant  to  figure  the  lining  of  dimness  and  damp. 

On  the  whole,  though  there  is  some  rash  boasting  about  en- 
lightenment, and  an  occasional  insistence  on  an  originality 
which  is  that  of  the  present  year's  corn-crop,  we  seem  too 
much  disposed  to  indulge,  and  to  call  by  complimentary 
names,  a  greater  charity  for  other  portions  of  the  human  race 
than  for  our  contemporaries.  All  reverence  and  gratitude  for 
the  worthy  Dead  on  whose  labors  we  have  entered,  all  care 
for  the  future  generations  whose  lot  we  are  preparing ;  but 
some  affection  and  fairness  for  those  who  are  doing  the  actual 
work  of  the  world,  some  attempt  to  regard  them  with  the 
same  freedom  from  ill-temper,  whether  on  private  or  public 
grounds,  as  we  may  hope  will  be  felt  by  those  who  will  call 
us  ancient!  Otherwise,  the  looking  before  and  after,  which  is 
our  grand  human  privilege,  is  in  danger  of  turning  to  a  sort 
of  other-worldliness,  breeding  a  more  illogical  indifference  or 
bitterness  than  was  ever  bred  by  the  ascetic's  contemplation 
of  heaven.  Except  on  the  ground  of  a  primitive  golden  age 
and  continuous  degeneracy,  I  see  no  rational  footing  for  scorn- 
ing the  whole  present  population  of  the  globe,  unless  I  scorn 
every  previous  generation  from  whom  they  have  inherited 
their  diseases  of  mind  and  body,  and  by  consequence  scorn  my 
own  scorn,  which  is  equally  an  inheritance  of  mixed  ideas  and 
feelings  concocted  for  me  in  the  boiling  caldron  of  this  uni- 
versally contemptible  life,  and  so  on — scorning  to  infinity. 
This  may  represent  some  actual  states  of  mind,  for  it  is  a  nar- 
row prejudice  of  mathematicians  to  suppose  that  ways  of  think- 
ing are  to  be  driven  out  of  the  field  by  being  reduced  to  an 
absurdity.  The  Absurd  is  taken  as  an  excellent  juicy  thistle 
by  many  constitutions. 

Eeflections  of  this  sort  have  gradually  determined  me  not 
to  grumble  at  the  age  in  which  I  happen  to  have  been  born — 
a  natural  tendency  certainly  older  than  Hesiod.  Many  an- 
cient beautiful  things  are  lost,  many  ugly  modern  things  have 
arisen }  but  invert  the  proposition  and  it  is  equally  true.  I 


22  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

at  least  am  a  modern  with  some  interest  in  advocating  toler- 
ance, and  notwithstanding  an  inborn  beguilement  which  carries 
my  affection  and  regret  continually  into  an  imagined  past,  I 
am  aware  that  I  must  lose  all  sense  of  moral  proportion  unless 
I  keep  alive  a  stronger  attachment  to  what  is  near,  and  a  power 
of  admiring  what  I  best  know  and  understand.  Hence  this 
question  of  wishing  to  be  rid  of  one' s  contemporaries  asso- 
ciates itself  with  my  filial  feeling,  and  calls  up  the  thought 
that  I  might  as  justifiably  wish  that  I  had  had  other  parents 
than  those  whose  loving  tones  are  my  earliest  memory,  and 
whose  last  parting  first  taught  me  the  meaning  of  death.  I 
feel  bound  to  quell  such  a  wish  as  blasphemy. 

Besides  there  are  other  reasons  why  I  am  contented  that 
my  father  was  a  country  parson,  born  much  about  the  same 
time  as  Scott  and  Wordsworth;  notwithstanding  certain 
qualms  I  have  felt  at  the  fact  that  the  property  on  which  I 
am  living  was  saved  out  of  tithe  before  the  period  of  com- 
mutation, and  without  the  provisional  transfiguration  into  a 
modus.  It  has  sometimes  occurred  to  me  when  I  have  been 
taking  a  slice  of  excellent  ham  that,  from  a  too  tenable  point  of 
view,  I  was  breakfasting  on  a  small  squealing  black  pig  which, 
more  than  half  a  century  ago,  was  the  unwilling  representative 
of  spiritual  advantages  not  otherwise  acknowledged  by  the 
grudging  farmer  or  dairyman  who  parted  with  him.  One  en- 
ters on  a  fearful  labyrinth  in  tracing  compound  interest  back- 
ward, and  such  complications  of  thought  have  reduced  the 
flavor  of  the  ham ;  but  since  I  have  nevertheless  eaten  it,  the 
chief  effect  has  been  to  moderate  the  severity  of  my  radicalism 
(which  was  not  part  of  my  paternal  inheritance)  and  to  raise 
the  assuaging  reflection  that  if  'the  pig  and  the  parishioner 
had  been  intelligent  enough  to  anticipate  my  historical  point 
of  view,  they  would  have  seen  themselves  and  the  rector  .in  a 
light  that  would  have  made  tithe  voluntary.  Notwithstand- 
ing such  drawbacks  I  am  rather  fond  of  the  mental  furniture 
I  got  by  having  a  father  who  was  well  acquainted  with  all 
ranks  of  his  neighbors,  and  am  thankful  that  he  was  not  one 
of  those  aristocratic  clergymen  who  could  not  have  sat  down  to 
a  meal  with  any  family  in  the  parish  except  my  lord's — still 
more  that  he  was  not  an  earl  or  a  marquis.  A  chief  misfor- 


LOOKING  BACKWARD.  23 

tune  of  high  birth  is  that  it  usually  shuts  a  man  out  from 
the  large  sympathetic  knowledge  of  human  experience  which 
comes  from  contact  with  various  classes  on  their  own  level, 
and  in  my  father's  time  that  entail  of  social  ignorance  had  not 
been  disturbed  as  we  see  it  now.  To  look  always  from  over- 
head at  the  crowd  of  one's  fellow-men  must  be  in  many  ways 
incapacitating,  even  with  the  best  will  and  intelligence.  The 
serious  blunders  it  must  lead  to  in  the  effort  to  manage  them 
for  their  good  one  may  see  clearly  by  the  mistaken  ways  peo- 
ple take  of  nattering  and  enticing  others  whose  associations 
are  unlike  their  own.  Hence  I  have  always  thought  that  the 
most  fortunate  Britons  are  those  whose  experience  has  given 
them  a  practical  share  in  many  aspects  of  the  national  lot, 
who  have  lived  long  among  the  mixed  commonalty,  roughing 
it  with  them  under  difficulties,  knowing  how  their  food  tastes 
to  them,  and  getting  acquainted  with  their  notions  and  mo- 
tives not  by  inference  from  traditional  types  in  literature  or 
from  philosophical  theories,  but  from  daily  fellowship  and  ob- 
servation. Of  course  such  experience  is  apt  to  get  antiquated, 
and  my  father  might  find  himself  much  at  a  loss  amongst  a 
mixed  rural  population  of  the  present  day ;  but  he  knew  very 
well  what  could  be  wisely  expected  from  the  miners,  the 
weavers,  the  field-laborers,  and  the  farmers  of  his  own  time — 
yes,  and  from  the  aristocracy,  for  he  had  been  brought  up  in 
close  contact  with  them  and  had  been  companion  to  a  young 
nobleman  who  was  deaf  and  dumb.  "  A  clergyman,  lad, "  he 
used  to  say  to  me,  "  should  feel  in  himself  a  bit  of  every 
class  " ;  and  this  theory  had  a  felicitous  agreement  with  his 
inclination  and  practice,  which  certainly  answered  in  making 
him  beloved  by  his  parishioners.  They  grumbled  at  their  ob- 
ligations toward  him;  but  what  then?  It  was  natural  to 
grumble  at  any  demand  for  payment,  tithe  included,  but  also 
natural  for  a  rector  to  desire  his  tithe  and  look  well  after  the 
levying.  A  Christian  pastor  who  did  not  mind  about  his 
money  was  not  an  ideal  prevalent  among  the  rural  minds  of 
fat  central  England,  and  might  have  seemed  to  introduce  a 
dangerous  laxity  of  supposition  about  Christian  laymen  who 
happened  to  be  creditors.  My  father  was  none  the  less  be- 
loved because  he  was  understood  to  be  of  a  saving  disposition, 


24  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

and  how  could  he  save  without  getting  his  tithe?  The  sight 
of  him  was  not  unwelcome  at  any  door,  and  he  was  remark- 
able among  the  clergy  of  his  district  for  having  no  lasting  feud 
with  rich  or  poor  in  his  parish.  I  profited  by  his  popularity, 
and  for  months  after  my  mother's  death,  when  I  was  a  little 
fellow  of  nine,  I  was  taken  care  of  first  at  one  homestead  and 
then  at  another;  a  variety  which  I  enjoyed  much  more  than 
my  stay  at  the  Hall,  where  there  was  a  tutor.  Afterward  for 
several  years  I  was  my  father's  constant  companion  in  his 
outdoor  business,  riding  by  his  side  on  my  little  pony  and 
listening  to  the  lengthy  dialogues  he  held  with  Darby  or  Joan, 
the  one  on  the  road  or  in  the  fields,  the  other  outside  or  inside 
her  door.  In  my  earliest  remembrance  of  him  his  hair  was 
already  gray,  for  I  was  his  youngest  as  well  as  his  only  sur- 
viving child ;  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  advanced  age  was  ap- 
propriate to  a  father,  as  indeed  in  all  respects  I  considered 
him  a  parent  so  much  to  my  honor  that  the  mention  of  my  re- 
lationship to  him  was  likely  to  secure  me  regard  among  those 
to  whom  I  was  otherwise  a  stranger — my  father's  stories  from 
his  life  including  so  many  names  of  distant  persons  that  my 
imagination  placed  no  limit  to  his  acquaintanceship.  He  was 
a  pithy  talker,  and  his  sermons  bore  marks  of  his  own  compo- 
sition. It  is  true,  they  must  have  been  already  old  when  I 
began  to  listen  to  them,  and  they  were  no  more  than  a  year's 
supply,  so  that  they  recurred  as  regularly  as  the  Collects. 
But  though  this  system  has  been  much  ridiculed,  I  am  pre- 
pared to  defend  it  as  equally  sound  with  that  of  a  liturgy ;  and 
even  if  my  researches  had  shown  me  that  some  of  my  father's 
yearly  sermons  had  been  copied  out  from  the  Avorks  of  elder 
divines,  this  would  only  have  been  another  proof  of  his  good 
judgment.  One  may  prefer  fresh  eggs  though  laid  by  a  fowl 
of  the  meanest  understanding,  but  why  fresh  sermons? 

Nor  can  I  be  sorry,  though  myself  given  to  meditative  if 
not  active  innovation,  that  my  father  was  a  Tory  who  had  not 
exactly  a  dislike  to  innovators  and  dissenters,  but  a  slight 
opinion  of  them  as  persons  of  ill-founded  self-confidence; 
whence  my  young  ears  gathered  many  details  concerning  those 
who  might  perhaps  have  called  themselves  the  more  advanced 
thinkers  in  our  nearest  market-town,  tending  to  convince  me 


LOOKING  BACKWARD.  25 

that  their  characters  were  quite  as  mixed  as  those  of  the 
thinkers  behind  them.  This  circumstance  of  my  rearing  has 
at  least  delivered  me  from  certain  mistakes  of  classification 
which  I  observe  in  many  of  my  superiors,  who  have  apparent- 
ly no  affectionate  memories  of  a  goodness  mingled  with  what 
they  now  regard  as  outworn  prejudices.  Indeed,  my  philo- 
sophical notions,  such  as  they  are,  continually  carry  me  back 
to  the  time  when  the  fitful  gleams  of  a  spring  day  used  to 
show  me  my  own  shadow  as  that  of  a  small  boy  on  a  small 
pony,  riding  by  the  side  of  a  larger  cob-mounted  shadow  over 
the  breezy  uplands  which  we  used  to  dignify  with  the  name 
of  hills,  or  along  by-roads  with  broad  grassy  borders  and 
hedgerows  reckless  of  utility,  on  our  way  to  outlying  ham- 
lets, whose  groups  of  inhabitants  were  as  distinctive  to  my 
imagination  as  if  they  had  belonged  to  different  regions  of  the 
globe.  From  these  we  sometimes  rode  onward  to  the  adjoin- 
ing parish,  where  also  my  father  officiated,  for  he  was  a  plu- 
ralist, but — I  hasten  to  add — on  the  smallest  scale ;  for  his  one 
extra  living  was  a  poor  vicarage,  with  hardly  fifty  parishioners, 
and  its  church  would  have  made  a  very  shabby  barn,  the  gray 
worm-eaten  wood  of  its  pews  and  pulpit,  with  their  doors  only 
half  hanging  on  the  hinges,  being  exactly  the  color  of  a  lean 
mouse  which  I  once  observed  as  an  interesting  member  of  the 
scant  congregation,  and  conjectured  to  be  the  identical  church 
mouse  I  had  heard  referred  to  as  an  example  of  extreme  pov- 
erty ;  for  I  was  a  precocious  boy,  and  often  reasoned  after  the 
fashion  of  my  elders,  arguing  that  "  Jack  and  Jill "  were  real 
personages  in  our  parish,  and  that  if  I  could  identify  "  Jack  " 
I  should  find  on  him  the  marks  of  a  broken  crown. 

Sometimes  when  I  am  in  a  crowded  London  drawing-room 
(for  I  am  a  town-bird  now,  acquainted  with  smoky  eaves,  and 
tasting  Nature  in  the  parks)  quick  flights  of  memory  take  me 
back  among  my  father's  parishioners  while  I  am  still  con- 
scious of  elbowing  men  who  wear  the  same  evening  uniform 
as  myself;  and  I  presently  begin  to  wonder  what  varieties  of 
history  lie  hidden  under  this  monotony  of  aspect.  Some  of 
them,  perhaps,  belong  to  families  with  many  quarterings ;  but 
how  many  "  quarterings  "  of  diverse  contact  with  their  fellow- 
countrymen  enter  into  their  qualifications  to  be  parliamentary 


26  THEOPHBASTU8  SUCH. 

leaders,  professors  of  social  science,  or  journalistic  guides  of 
the  popular  mind?  Not  that  I  feel  myself  a  person  made 
competent  by  experience ;  on  the  contrary,  I  argue  that  since 
an  observation  of  different  ranks  has  still  left  me  practically 
a  poor  creature,  what  must  be  the  condition  of  those  who  ob- 
ject even  to  read  about  the  life  of  other  British  classes  than 
their  own?  But  of  my  elbowing  neighbors  with  their  crush 
hats,  I  usually  imagine  that  the  most  distinguished  among 
them  have  probably  had  a  far  more  instructive  journey  into 
manhood  than  mine.  Here,  perhaps,  is  a  thought- worn 
physiognomy,  seeming  at  the  present  moment  to  be  classed  as 
a  mere  species  of  white  cravat  and  swallow-tail,  which  may 
once,  like  Faraday's,  have  shown  itself  in  curiously  dubious 
embryonic  form  leaning  against  a  cottage  lintel  in  small  cor- 
duroys, and  hungrily  eating  a  bit  of  brown  bread  and  bacon ; 
there  is  a  pair  of  eyes,  now  too  much  wearied  by  the  gas-light 
of  public  assemblies,  that  once  perhaps  learned  to  read  their 
native  England  through  the  same  alphabet  as  mine — not  within 
the  boundaries  of  an  ancestral  park,  never  even  being  driven 
through  the  country  town  five  miles  off,  but — among  the  mid- 
land villages  and  markets,  along  by  the  tree-studded  hedge- 
rows, and  where  the  heavy  barges  seem  in  the  distance  to  float 
mysteriously  among  the  rushes  and  the  feathered  grass.  Our 
vision,  both  real  and  ideal,  has  since  then  been  filled  with 
far  other  scenes:  among  eternal  snows  and  stupendous  sun- 
scorched  monuments  of  departed  empires ;  within  the  scent  of 
the  long  orange-groves;  and  where  the  temple  of  Neptune 
looks  out  over  the  siren-haunted  sea.  But  my  eyes  at  least 
have  kept  their  early  affectionate  joy  in  our  native  landscape, 
which  is  one  deep  root  of  our  national  life  and  language. 

And  I  often  smile  at  my  consciousness  that  certain  con- 
servative prepossessions  have  mingled  themselves  for  me  with 
the  influence  of  our  midland  scenery,  from  the  tops  of  the 
elms  down  to  the  buttercups  and  the  little  wayside  vetches. 
Naturally  enough.  That  part  of  my  father's  prime  to  which 
he  oftenest  referred  had  fallen  on  the  days  when  the  great 
wave  of  political  enthusiasm  and  belief  in  a  speedy  regenera- 
tion of  all  things  had  ebbed,  and  the  supposed  millennial  ini- 
tiative of  France  was  turning  into  a  Napoleonic  empire,  the 


LOOKING  BACKWARD.  27 

sway  of  an  Attila  with  a  mouth  speaking  proud  things  in  a 
jargon  half  revolutionary,  half  Koman.  Men  were  beginning 
to  shrink  timidly  from  the  memory  of  their  own  words  and 
from  the  recognition  of  the  fellowships  they  had  formed  ten 
years  before;  and  even  reforming  Englishmen  for  the  most 
part  were  willing  to  wait  for  the  perfection  of  society,  if  only 
they  could  keep  their  throats  perfect  and  help  to  drive  away 
the  chief  enemy  of  mankind  from  our  coasts.  To  my  father's 
mind  the  noisy  teachers  of  revolutionary  doctrine  were,  to 
speak  mildly,  a  variable  mixture  of  the  fool  and  the  scoundrel ; 
the  welfare  of  the  nation  lay  in  a  strong  Government  which 
could  maintain  order ;  and  I  was  accustomed  to  hear  him  utter 
the  word  "  Government "  in  a  tone  that  charged  it  with  awe, 
and  made  it  part  of  my  effective  religion,  in  contrast  with  the 
word  "  rebel, "  which  seemed  to  carry  the  stamp  of  evil  in  its 
syllables,  and,  lit  by  the  fact  that  Satan  was  the  first  rebel, 
made  an  argument  dispensing  with  more  detailed  inquiry.  I 
gathered  that  our  national  troubles  in  the  first  two  decades  of 
this  century  were  not  at  all  due  to  the  mistakes  of  our  ad- 
ministrators ;  and  that  England,  with  its  fine  Church  and  Con- 
stitution, would  have  been  exceedingly  well  off  if  every  British 
subject  had  been  thankful  for  what  was  provided,  and  had 
minded  his  own  business — if,  for  example,  numerous  Catholics 
of  that  period  had  been  aware  how  very  modest  they  ought  to 
be  considering  they  were  Irish.  The  times,  I  heard,  had 
often  been  bad ;  but  I  was  constantly  hearing  of  "  bad  times  " 
as  a  name  for  actual  evenings  and  mornings  when  the  god- 
fathers who  gave  them  that  name  appeared  to  be  remarkably 
comfortable.  Altogether,  my  father's  England  seemed  to  me 
lovable,  laudable,  full  of  good  men,  and  having  good  rulers, 
from  Mr.  Pitt  on  to  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  until  he  was 
for  emancipating  the  Catholics;  and  it  was  so  far  from  prosaic 
to  me  that  I  looked  into  it  for  a  more  exciting  romance  than 
such  as  I  could  find  in  my  own  adventures,  which  consisted 
mainly  in  fancied  crises  calling  for  the  resolute  wielding  of 
domestic  swords  and  firearms  against  unapparent  robbers, 
rioters,  and  invaders  who,  it  seemed,  in  my  father's  prime 
had  more  chance  of  being  real.  The  morris-dancers  had  not 
then  dwindled  to  a  ragged  and  almost  vanished  rout  (owing 


28  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

the  traditional  name  probably  to  the  historic  fancy  of  our 
superannuated  groom) ;  also  the  good  old  king  was  alive  and 
well,  which  made  all  the  more  difference  because  I  had  no  no- 
tion what  he  was  and  did — only  understanding  in  general  that 
if  he  had  been  still  on  the  throne  he  would  have  hindered 
everything  that  wise  persons  thought  undesirable. 

Certainly  that  elder  England  with  its  frankly  salable  bor- 
oughs, so  cheap  compared  with  the  seats  obtained  under  the 
reformed  method,  and  its  boroughs  kindly  presented  by  noble- 
men desirous  to  encourage  gratitude ;  its  prisons  with  a  mis- 
cellaneous company  of  felons  and  maniacs  and  without  any 
supply  of  water ;  its  bloated,  idle  charities ;  its  non-resident, 
jovial  clergy ;  its  militia-balloting ;  and,  above  all,  its  blank 
ignorance  of  what  we,  its  posterity,  should  be  thinking  of  it, 
— has  great  differences  from  the  England  of  to-day.  Yet  we 
discern  a  strong  family  likeness.  Is  there  any  country  which 
shows  at  once  as  much  stability  and  as  much  susceptibility 
to  change  as  ours?  Our  national  life  is  like  that  scenery 
which  I  early  learned  to  love,  not  subject  to  great  convulsions, 
but  easily  showing  more  or  less  delicate  (sometimes  melan- 
choly) effects  from  minor  changes.  Hence  our  midland  plains 
have  never  lost  their  familiar  expression  and  conservative 
spirit  for  me;  yet  at  every  other  mile,  since  I  first  looked  on 
them,  some  sign  of  world-wide  change,  some  new  direction  of 
human  labor  has  wrought  itself  into  what  one  may  call  the 
speech  of  the  landscape — in  contrast  with  those  grander  and 
vaster  regions  of  the  earth  which  keep  an  indifferent  aspect  in 
the  presence  of  men's  toil  and  devices.  What  does  it  signify 
that  a  lilliputian  train  passes  over  a  viaduct  amidst  the 
abysses  of  the  Apennines,  or  that  a  caravan  laden  with  a  na- 
tion's offerings  creeps  across  the  unresting  sameness  of  the 
desert,  or  that  a  petty  cloud  of  steam  sweeps  for  an  instant 
over  the  face  of  an  Egyptian  colossus  immovably  submitting 
to  its  slow  burial  beneath  the  sand?  But  our  woodlands  and 
pastures,  our  hedge-parted  corn-fields  and  meadows,  our  bits 
of  high  common  where  we  used  to  plant  the  windmills,  our 
quiet  little  rivers  here  and  there  fit  to  turn  a  mill-wheel,  our 
villages  along  the  old  coach-roads,  are  all  easily  alterable 
lineaments  that  seem  to  make  the  face  of  our  Motherland  sym- 


LOOKING  BACKWARD.  29 

pathetic  with  the  laborious  lives  of  her  children.  She  does 
not  take  their  ploughs  and  wagons  contemptuously,  but  rather 
makes  every  hovel  and  every  sheep-fold,  every  railed  bridge 
or  fallen  tree-trunk,  an  agreeably  noticeable  incident;  not  a 
mere  speck  in  the  midst  of  unmeasured  vastness,  but  a  piece 
of  our  social  history  in  pictorial  writing. 

Our  rural  tracts  —  where  no  Babel-chimney  scales  the 
heavens — are  without  mighty  objects  to  fill  the  soul  with  the 
sense  of  an  outer  world  unconquerably  aloof  from  our  efforts. 
The  wastes  are  playgrounds  (and  let  us  try  to  keep  them  such 
for  the  children's  children  who  will  inherit  no  other  sort  of 
demesne) ;  the  grasses  and  reeds  nod  to  each  other  over  the 
river,  but  we  have  cut  a  canal  close  by ;  the  very  heights  laugh 
with  corn  in  August  or  lift  the  plough-team  against  the  sky  in 
September.  Then  comes  a  crowd  of  burly  navvies  with  pick- 
axes and  barrows,  and  while  hardly  a  wrinkle  is  made  in  the 
fading  mother's  face  or  a  new  curve  of  health  in  the  blooming 
girl's,  the  hills  are  cut  through  or  the  breaches  between  them 
spanned,  we  choose  our  level  and  the  white  steam-pennon  flies 
along  it. 

But  because  our  land  shows  this  readiness  to  be  changed, 
all  signs  of  permanence  upon  it  raise  a  tender  attachment  in- 
stead of  awe :  some  of  us,  at  least,  love  the  scanty  relics  of  our 
forests,  and  are  thankful  if  a  bush  is  left  of  the  old  hedgerow. 
A  crumbling  bit  of  wall  where  the  delicate  ivy-leaved  toad- 
flax hangs  its  light  branches,  or  a  bit  of  gray  thatch  with 
patches  of  dark  moss  on  its  shoulder  and  a  troop  of  grass- 
stems  on  its  ridge,  is  a  thing  to  visit.  And  then  the  tiled  roof 
of  cottage  and  homestead,  of  the  long  cow-shed  where  genera- 
tions of  the  milky  mothers  have  stood  patiently,  of  the  broad- 
shouldered  barns  where  the  old-fashioned  flail  once  made 
resonant  music,  while  the  watch-dog  barked  at  the  timidly 
venturesome  fowls  making  pecking  raids  on  the  outflying 
grain — the  roofs  that  have  looked  out  from  among  the  elms 
and  walnut-trees,  or  beside  the  yearly  group  of  hay  and  corn 
stacks,  or  below  the  square  stone  steeple,  gathering  their  gray 
or  ochre-tinted  lichens  and  their  olive-green  mosses  under  all 
ministries, — let  us  praise  the  sober  harmonies  they  give  to  our 
landscape,  helping  to  unite  us  pleasantly  with  the  elder  gen- 


30  THEOPHRASTUS   SUCH. 

erations  who  tilled  the  soil  for  us  before  we  were  born,  and 
paid  heavier  and  heavier  taxes,'  with  much  grumbling,  but 
without  that  deepest  root  of  corruption — the  self-indulgent  de- 
spair which  cuts  down  and  consumes  and  never  plants. 

But  I  check  myself.  Perhaps  this  England  of  my  affections 
is  half  visionary — a  dream  in  which  things  are  connected  ac- 
cording to  my  well-fed,  lazy  mood,  and  not  at  all  by  the  mul- 
titudinous links  of  graver,  sadder  fact,  such  as  belong  every- 
where to  the  story  of  human  labor.  Well,  well,  the  illusions 
that  began  for  us  when  we  were  less  acquainted  with  evil  have 
not  lost  their  value  when  we  discern  them  to  be  illusions. 
They  feed  the  ideal  Better,  and  in  loving  them  still,  we 
strengthen  the  precious  habit  of  loving  something  not  visibly, 
tangibly  existent,  but  a  spiritual  product  of  our  visible,  tangi- 
ble selves. 

I  cherish  my  childish  loves — the  memory  of  that  warm  little 
nest  where  my  affections  were  fledged.  Since  then  I  have 
learned  to  care  for  foreign  countries,  for  literatures  foreign  and 
ancient,  for  the  life  of  Continental  towns  dozing  round  old 
cathedrals,  for  the  life  of  London,  half  sleepless  with  eager 
thought  and  strife,  with  indigestion  or  with  hunger ;  and  now 
my  consciousness  is  chiefly  of  the  busy,  anxious  metropolitan 
sort.  My  system  responds  sensitively  to  the  London  weather- 
signs,  political,  social,  literary;  and  my  bachelor's  hearth  is 
embedded  where  by  much  craning  of  head  and  neck  I  can  catch 
sight  of  a  sycamore  in  the  Square  garden :  I  belong  to  the 
" Nation  of  London."  Why?  There  have  been  many  volun- 
tary exiles  in  the  world,  and  probably  in  the  very  first  exodus 
of  the  patriarchal  Aryans — for  I  am  determined  not  to  fetch 
my  examples  from  races  whose  talk  is  of  uncles  and  no  fathers 
— some  of  those  who  sallied  forth  went  for  the  sake  of  a  loved 
companionship,  when  they  would  willingly  have  kept  sight  of 
the  familiar  plains,  and  of  the  hills  to  which  they  had  first 
lifted  up  their  eyes. 


m. 

HOW  WE  ENCOURAGE  RESEARCH. 

THE  serene  and  beneficent  goddess  Truth,  like  other  deities 
whose  disposition  has  been  too  hastily  inferred  from  that  of 
the  men  who  have  invoked  them,  can  hardly  be  well  pleased 
with  much  of  the  worship  paid  to  her  even  in  this  milder  age, 
when  the  stake  and  the  rack  have  ceased  to  form  part  of  her 
ritual.  Some  cruelties  still  pass  for  service  done  in  her  honor : 
no  thumb-screw  is  used,  no  iron  boot,  no  scorching  of  flesh ; 
but  plenty  of  controversial  bruising,  laceration,  and  even  life- 
long maiming.  Less  than  formerly ;  but  so  long  as  this  sort 
of  truth-worship  has  the  sanction  of  a  public  that  can  often 
understand  nothing  in  a  controversy  except  personal  sarcasm 
or  slanderous  ridicule,  it  is  likely  to  continue.  The  sufferings 
of  its  victims  are  often  as  little  regarded  as  those  of  the  sacri- 
ficial pig  offered  in  old  time,  with  what  we  now  regard  as  a 
sad  miscalculation  of  effects. 

One  such  victim  is  my  old  acquaintance  Merman.  Twenty 
years  ago  Merman  was  a  young  man  of  promise,  a  convey- 
ancer with  a  practice  which  had  certainly  budded,  but,  unlike 
Aaron's  rod,  seemed  not  destined  to  proceed  further  in  that 
marvellous  activity.  Meanwhile  he  occupied  himself  in  mis- 
cellaneous periodical  writing  and  in  a  multifarious  study  of 
moral  and  physical  science.  What  chiefly  attracted  him  in 
all  subjects  were  the  vexed  questions  which  have  the  advan- 
tage of  not  admitting  the  decisive  proof  or  disproof  that  ren- 
ders many  ingenious  arguments  superannuated.  Not  that 
Merman  had  a  wrangling  disposition :  he  put  all  his  doubts, 
queries,  and  paradoxes  deferentially,  contended  without  un- 
pleasant heat  and  only  with  a  sonorous  eagerness  against  the 
personality  of  Homer,  expressed  himself  civilly  though  firmly 
on  the  origin  of  language,  and  had  tact  enough  to  drop  at  the 


32  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

right  moment  such  subjects  as  the  ultimate  reduction  of  all 
the  so-called  elementary  substances,  his  own  total  scepticism 
concerning  Manetho's  chronology,  or  even  the  relation  between 
the  magnetic  condition  of  the  earth  and  the  outbreak  of  revo- 
lutionary tendencies.  Such  flexibility  was  naturally  much 
helped  by  his  amiable  feeling  toward  woman,  whose  nervous 
system,  he  was  convinced,  would  not  bear  the  continuous  strain 
of  difficult  topics ;  and  also  by  his  willingness  to  contribute  a 
song  whenever  the  same  desultory  charmer  proposed  music. 
Indeed  his  tastes  were  domestic  enough  to  beguile  him  into 
marriage  when  his  resources  were  still  very  moderate  and 
partly  uncertain.  His  friends  wished  that  so  ingenious  and 
agreeable  a  fellow  might  have  more  prosperity  than  they  ven- 
tured to  hope  for  him,  their  chief  regret  on  his  account  being 
that  he  did  not  concentrate  his  talent  and  leave  off  forming 
opinions  on  at  least  half  a  dozen  of  the  subjects  over  which  he 
scattered  his  attention,  especially  now  that  he  had  married  a 
"nice  little  woman"  (the  generic  name  for  acquaintances' 
wives  when  they  are  not  markedly  disagreeable).  He  could 
not,  they  observed,  want  all  his  various  knowledge  and  Lapu- 
tan  ideas  for  his  periodical  writing  which  brought  him  most 
of  his  bread,  and  he  would  do  well  to  use  his  talents  in  get- 
ting a  specialty  that  would  fit  him  for  a  post.  Perhaps  these 
well-disposed  persons  were  a  little  rash  in  presuming  that  fit- 
ness for  a  post  would  be  the  surest  ground  for  getting  it ;  and 
on  the  whole,  in  now  looking  back  on  their  wishes  for  Mer- 
man, their  chief  satisfaction  must  be  that  those  wishes  did  not 
contribute  to  the  actual  result. 

For  in  an  evil  hour  Merman  did  concentrate  himself.  He 
had  for  many  years  taken  into  his  interest  the  comparative 
history  of  the  ancient  civilizations,  but  it  had  not  preoccupied 
him  so  as  to  narrow  his  generous  attention  to  everything  else. 
One  sleepless  night,  however  (his  wife  has  more  than  once 
narrated  to  me  the  details  of  an  event  memorable  to  her  as 
the  beginning  of  sorrows),  after  spending  some  hours  over 
the  epoch-making  work  of  Grampus,  a  new  idea  seized  him 
with  regard  to  the  possible  connection  of  certain  symbolic 
monuments  common  to  widely  scattered  races.  Merman 
started  up  in  bed.  The  night  was  cold,  and  the  sudden  with- 


HOW  WE  ENCOURAGE  RESEARCH.        33 

drawal  of  warmth  made  his  wife  first  dream  of  a  snowball, 
and  then  cry, — 

"What  is  the  matter,  Proteus?" 

"  A  great  matter,  Julia.  That  fellow  Grampus,  whose  book 
is  cried  up  as  a  revelation,  is  all  wrong  about  the  Magicodum- 
bras  and  the  Zuzumotzis,  and  I  have  got  hold  of  the  right 
clew." 

"Good  gracious!  does  it  matter  so  much?  Don't  drag  the 
clothes,  dear." 

"  It  signifies  thic;,  Julia,  that  if  I  am  right  I  shall  set  the 
world  right ;  I  shall  regenerate  history ;  I  shall  win  the  mind 
of  Europe  to  a  new  view  of  social  origins ;  I  shall  bruise  the 
head  of  many  superstitious. " 

"  Oh  no,  dear,  don't  go  too  far  into  things.  Lie  down 
again.  You  have  been  dreaming.  What  are  the  Madicojum- 
bras  and  Zuzitotzums?  I  never  heard  you  talk  of  them  before. 
What  use  can  it  be  troubling  yourself  about  such  things?  " 

"  That  is  the  way,  Julia — that  is  the  way  wives  alienate 
their  husbands,  and  make  any  hearth  pleasanter  to  him  than 
his  own ! " 

"What  do  you  mean,  Proteus?  " 

"  Why,  if  a  woman  will  not  try  to  understand  her  husband's 
ideas,  or  at  least  to  believe  that  they  are  of  more  value  than 
she  can  understand — if  she  is  to  join  anybody  who  happens  to 
be  against  him,  and  suppose  he  is  a  fool  because  others  con- 
tradict him — there  is  an  end  of  our  happiness.  That  is  all 
I  have  to  say." 

"  Oh  no,  Proteus,  dear.  I  do  believe  what  you  say  is  right. 
That  is  my  only  guide.  I  am  sure  I  never  have  any  opinions 
in  any  other  way :  I  mean  about  subjects.  Of  course  there 
are  many  little  things  that  would  tease  you,  that  you  like  me 
to  judge  of  for  myself.  I  know  I  said  once  that  I  did  not 
want  you  to  sing  '  Oh  ruddier  than  the  cherry, '  because  it  was 
not  in  your  voice.  But  I  cannot  remember  ever  differing  from 
you  about  subjects.  I  never  in  my  life  thought  any  one  clev- 
erer than  you." 

Julia  Merman  was  really  a  "  nice  little  woman, "  not  one  of 
the  stately  Dians  sometimes  spoken  of  in  those  terms.  Her 
black  silhouette  had  a  very  infantine  aspect,  but  she  had  dis- 
3 


34  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

cernment  and  wisdom  enough  to  act  on  the  strong  hint  of  that 
memorable  conversation,  never  again  giving  her  husband  the 
slightest  ground  for  suspecting  that  she  thought  treasonably 
of  his  ideas  in  relation  to  the  Magicodumbras  and  Zuzumotzis, 
or  in  the  least  relaxed  her  faith  in  his  infallibility  because 
Europe  was  not  also  convinced  of  it.  It  was  well  for  her  that 
she  did  not  increase  her  troubles  in  this  way ;  but  to  do  her 
justice,  what  she  was  chiefly  anxious  about  was  to  avoid  in- 
creasing her  husband's  troubles. 

Not  that  these  were  great  in  the  beginning.  In  the  first 
development  and  writing  out  of  his  scheme,  Merman  had  a 
more  intense  kind  of  intellectual  pleasure  than  he  had  ever 
known  before.  His  face  became  more  radiant,  his  general 
view  of  human  prospects  more  cheerful.  Foreseeing  that 
truth  as  presented  by  himself  would  win  the  recognition  of 
his  contemporaries,  he  excused  with  much  liberality  their 
rather  rough  treatment  of  other  theorists  whose  basis  was  less 
perfect.  His  own  periodical  criticisms  had  never  before  been 
so  amiable:  he  was  sorry  for  that  unlucky  majority  whom  the 
spirit  of  the  age,  or  some  other  prompting  more  definite  and 
local,  compelled  to  write  without  any  particular  ideas.  The 
possession  of  an  original  theory  which  has  not  yet  been  as- 
sailed must  certainly  sweeten  the  temper  of  a  man  who  is  not 
beforehand  ill-natured.  And  Merman  was  the  reverse  of  ill- 
natured. 

But  the  hour  of  publication  came ;  and  to  half  a  dozen  per- 
sons, described  as  the  learned  world  of  two  hemispheres,  it 
became  known  that  Grampus  was  attacked.  This  might  have 
been  a  small  matter;  for  who  or  what  on  earth  that  is  good 
for  anything  is  not  assailed  by  ignorance,  stupidity,  or  malice 
— and  sometimes  even  by  just  objection?  But  on  examination 
it  appeared  that  the  attack  might  possibly  be  held  damaging, 
unless  the  ignorance  of  the  author  were  well  exposed  and  his' 
pretended  facts  shown  to  be  chimeras  of  that  remarkably  hide- 
ous kind  begotten  by  imperfect  learning  on  the  more  feminine 
element  of  original  incapacity.  Grampus  himself  did  not  im- 
mediately cut  open  the  volume  which  Merman  had  been  care- 
ful to  send  him,  not  without  a  very  lively  and  shifting  con- 
ception of  the  possible  effects  which  the  explosive  gift  might 


HOW  WE  ENCOURAGE  RESEARCH.  35 

produce  on  the  too  eminent  scholar — effects  that  must  cer- 
tainly have  set  in  on  the  third  day  from  the  despatch  of  the 
parcel.  But  in  point  of  fact  Grampus  knew  nothing  of  the 
book  until  his  friend  Lord  Narwhal  sent  him  an  American 
newspaper  containing  a  spirited  article  by  the  well-known 
Professor  Sperm  N.  Whale  which  was  rather  equivocal  in  its 
bearing,  the  passages  quoted  from  Merman  being  of  rather  a 
telling  sort,  and  the  paragraphs  which  seemed  to  blow  de- 
fiance being  unaccountably  feeble,  coming  from  so  distin- 
guished a  Cetacean.  Then,  by  another  post,  arrived  letters 
from  Butzkopf  and  Dugong,  both  men  whose  signatures  were 
familiar  to  the  Teutonic  world  in  the  Seltenerscheinende 
Monat-schrift  or  Hayrick  for  the  insertion  of  Split  Hairs,  ask- 
ing their  Master  whether  he  meant  to  take  up  the  combat, 
because,  in  the  contrary  case,  both  were  ready. 

Thus  America  and  Germany  were  roused,  though  England 
was  still  drowsy,  and  it  seemed  time  now  for  Grampus  to  find 
Merman's  book  under  the  heap  and  cut  it  open.  For  his  own 
part  he  was  perfectly  at  ease  about  his  system ;  but  this  is  a 
world  in  which  the  truth  requires  defence,  and  specious  false- 
hood must  be  met  with  exposure.  Grampus  having  once 
looked  through  the  book,  no  longer  wanted  any  urging  to 
write  the  most  crushing  of  replies.  This,  and  nothing  less 
than  this,  was  due  from  him  to  the  cause  of  sound  inquiry ; 
and  the  punishment  would  cost  him  little  pains.  In  three 
weeks  from  that  time  the  palpitating  Merman  saw  his  book 
announced  in  the  programme  of  the  leading  Review.  No  need 
for  Grampus  to  put  his  signature.  Who  else  had  his  vast  yet 
microscopic  knowledge,  who  else  his  power  of  epithet?  This 
article  in  which  Merman  was  pilloried  and  as  good  as  muti- 
lated— for  he  was  shown  to  have  neither  ear  nor  nose  for  the 
subtleties  of  philological  and  archaeological  study — was  much 
read  and  more  talked  of,  not  because  of  any  interest  in  the 
system  of  Grampus,  or  any  precise  conception  of  the  danger  at- 
tending lax  views  of  the  Magicodumbras  and  Zuzumotzis,  but 
because  the  sharp  epigrams  with  which  the  victim  was  lacer- 
ated, and  the  soaring  fountains  of  acrid  mud  which  were  shot 
upward  and  poured  over  the  fresh  wounds,  were  found  amus- 
ing in  recital.  A  favorite  passage  was  one  in  which  a  certain 


36  THEOPHRASTU8  SUCH. 

kind  of  sciolist  was  described  as  a  creature  of  the  Walrus  kind, 
having  a  phantasmal  resemblance  to  higher  animals  when  seen 
by  ignorant  minds  in  the  twilight,  dabbling  or  hobbling  in 
first  one  element  and  then  the  other,  without  parts  or  organs 
suited  to  either,  in  fact  one  of  Nature's  impostors  who  could 
not  be  said  to  have  any  artful  pretences,  since  a  congenital  in- 
competence to  all  precision  of  aim  and  movement  made  their 
every  action  a  pretence — just  as  a  being  born  in  doeskin  gloves 
would  necessarily  pass  a  judgment  on  surfaces,  but  we  all 
know  what  his  judgment  would  be  worth.  In  drawing-room 
circles,  and  for  the  immediate  hour,  this  ingenious  comparison 
was  as  damaging  as  the  showing  up  of  Merman's  mistakes 
and  the  mere  smattering  of  linguistic  and  historical  knowledge 
which  he  had  presumed  to  be  a  sufficient  basis  for  theorizing ; 
but  the  more  learned  cited  his  blunders  aside  to  each  other 
and  laughed  the  laugh  of  the  initiated.  In  fact.  Merman's  was 
a  remarkable  case  of  sudden  notoriety.  In  London  drums  and 
clubs  he  was  spoken  of  abundantly  as  one  who  had  written 
ridiculously  about  the  Magicodumbras  and  Zuzumotzis:  the 
leaders  of  conversation,  whether  Christians,  Jews,  infidels,  or 
of  any  other  confession  except  the  confession  of  ignorance, 
pronouncing  him  shallow  and  indiscreet  if  not  presumptuous 
and  absurd.  He  was  heard  of  at  Warsaw,  and  even  Paris 
took  knowledge  of  him.  M.  Cachalot  had  not  read  either 
Grampus  or  Merman,  but  he  heard  of  their  dispute  in  time  to 
insert  a  paragraph  upon  it  in  his  brilliant  work,  L'orient  au 
point  de  vue  actuel,  in  which  he  was  dispassionate  enough  to 
speak  of  Grampus  as  possessing  a  coup  d'ceil  presque  frangais 
in  matters  of  historical  interpretation,  and  of  Merman  as 
nevertheless  an  objector  qui  merite  d1  etre  connu.  M.  Porpesse, 
also,  availing  himself  of  M.  Cachalot's  knowledge,  reproduced 
it  in  an  article  with  certain  additions,  which  it  is  only  fair  to 
distinguish  as  his  own,  implying  that  the  vigorous  English  of 
Grampus  was  not  always  as  correct  as  a  Frenchman  could  de- 
sire, while  Merman's  objections  were  more  sophistical  than 
solid.  Presently,  indeed,  there  appeared  an  able  extrait  of 
Grampus's  article  in  the  valuable  Rapporteur  scientifique  et 
historique,  and  Merman's  mistakes  were  thus  brought  under 
the  notice  of  certain  Frenchmen  who  are  among  the  masters 


HOW  WE  ENCOURAGE  RESEARCH.  37 

of  those  who  know  on  oriental  subjects.     In  a  word,  Merman, 
though  not  extensively  read,  was  extensively  read  about. 

Meanwhile,  how  did  he  like  it?  Perhaps  nobody,  except 
his  wife,  for  a  moment  reflected  on  that.  An  amused  society 
considered  that  he  was  severely  punished,  but  did  not  take  the 
trouble  to  imagine  his  sensations ;  indeed  this  would  have  been 
a  difficulty  for  persons  less  sensitive  and  excitable  than  Mer- 
man himself.  Perhaps  that  popular  comparison  of  the  Wal- 
rus had  truth  enough  to  bite  and  blister  on  thorough  applica- 
tion, even  if  exultant  ignorance  had  not  applauded  it.  But  it 
is  well  known  that  the  walrus,  though  not  in  the  least  a  ma- 
lignant animal,  if  allowed  to  display  its  remarkably  plain 
person  and  blundering  performances  at  ease  in  any  element 
it  chooses,  becomes  desperately  savage  and  musters  alarming 
auxiliaries  when  attacked  or  hurt.  In  this  characteristic,  at 
least,  Merman  resembled  the  walrus.  And  now  he  concen- 
trated himself  with  a  vengeance.  That  his  counter-theory 
was  fundamentally  the  right  one  he  had  a  genuine  conviction, 
whatever  collateral  mistakes  he  might  have  committed;  and 
his  bread  would  not  cease  to  be  bitter  to  him  until  he  had  con- 
vinced his  contemporaries  that  Grampus  had  used  his  minute 
learning  as  a  dust-cloud  to  hide  sophistical  evasions — that,  in 
fact,  minute  learning  was  an  obstacle  to  clear-sighted  judg- 
ment, more  especially  with  regard  to  the  Magicodumbras  and 
Zuzumotzis,  and  that  the  best  preparation  in  this  matter  was 
a  wide  survey  of  history,  and  a  diversified  observation  of  men. 
Still,  Merman  was  resolved  to  muster  all  the  learning  within 
his  reach,  and  he  wandered  day  and  night  through  many  wil- 
dernesses of  German  print,  he  tried  compendious  methods  of 
learning  oriental  tongues,  and,  so  to  speak,  getting  at  the  mar- 
row of  languages  independently  of  the  bones,  for  the  chance  of 
finding  details  to  corroborate  his  own  views,  or  possibly  even 
to  detect  Grampus  in  some  oversight  or  textual  tampering. 
All  other  work  was  neglected :  rare  clients  were  sent  away 
and  amazed  editors  found  this  maniac  indifferent  to  his  chance 
of  getting  book-parcels  from  them.  It  was  many  months 
before  Merman  had  satisfied  himself  that  he  was  strong  enough 
to  face  round  upon  his  adversary.  But  at  last  he  had  pre- 
pared sixty  condensed  pages  of  eager  argument  which  seemed 


38  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

to  him  worthy  to  rank  with  the  best  models  of  controversial 
writing.  He  had  acknowledged  his  mistakes,  but  he  had  re- 
stated his  theory  so  as  to  show  that  it  was  left  intact  in  spite 
of  them;  and  he  had  even  found  cases  in  which  Ziphius, 
Microps,  Scrag  Whale  the  explorer,  and  other  Cetaceans  of 
unanswerable  authority,  were  decidedly  at  issue  with  Gram- 
pus. Especially  a  passage  cited  by  this  last  from  that  greatest 
of  fossils  Megalosaurus  was  demonstrated  by  Merman  to  be 
capable  of  three  different  interpretations,  all  preferable  to  that 
chosen  by  Grampus,  who  took  the  words  in  their  most  literal 
sense;  for,  1°,  the  incomparable  Saurian,  alike  unequalled  in 
close  observation  and  far-glancing  comprehensiveness,  might 
have  meant  those  words  ironically ;  2°,  motzis  was  probably  a 
false  reading  foxpotzis,  in  which  case  its  bearing  was  reversed; 
and  3°,  it  is  known  that  in  the  age  of  the  Saurians  there  were 
conceptions  about  the  motzis  which  entirely  remove  it  from 
the  category  of  things  comprehensible  in  an  age  when  Saurians 
run  ridiculously  small :  all  which  views  were  godfathered  by 
names  quite  fit  to  be  ranked  with  that  of  Grampus.  In  fine, 
Merman  wound  up  his  rejoinder  by  sincerely  thanking  the 
eminent  adversary  without  whose  fierce  assault  he  might  not 
have  undertaken  a  revision  in  the  course  of  which  he  had  met 
with  unexpected  and  striking  confirmations  of  his  own  funda- 
mental views.  Evidently  Merman's  anger  was  at  white  heat. 

The  rejoinder  being  complete,  all  that  remained  was  to  find 
a  suitable  medium  for  its  publication.  This  was  not  so  easy. 
Distinguished  mediums  would  not  lend  themselves  to  contradic- 
tions of  Grampus,  or  if  they  would,  Merman's  article  was  too 
long  and  too  abstruse,  while  he  would  not  consent  to  leave 
anything  out  of  an  article  which  had  no  superfluities ;  for  all 
this  happened  years  ago  when  the  world  was  at  a  different 
stage.  At  last,  however,  he  got  his  rejoinder  printed,  and  not 
on  hard  terms,  since  the  medium,  in  every  sense  modest,  did 
not  ask  him  to  pay  for  its  insertion. 

But  if  Merman  expected  to  call  out  Grampus  again,  he  was 
mistaken.  Everybody  felt  it  too  absurd  that  Merman  should 
undertake  to  correct  Grampus  in  matters  of  erudition,  and  an 
eminent  man  has  something  else  to  do  than  to  refute  a  petty 
objector  twice  over.  What  was  essential  had  been  done :  the 


HOW  WE  ENCOURAGE  RESEARCH.  39 

public  had  been  enabled  to  form  a  true  judgment  of  Merman's 
incapacity,  the  Magieodumbras  and  Zuzumotzis  were  but 
subsidiary  elements  in  Grampus's  system,  and  Merman  might 
now  be  dealt  with  by  younger  members  of  the  master's  school. 
But  he  had  at  least  the  satisfaction  of  finding  that  he  had 
raised  a  discussion  which  would  not  be  let  die.  The  followers 
of  Grampus  took  it  up  with  an  ardor  and  industry  of  research 
worthy  of  their  exemplar.  Butzkopf  made  it  the  subject  of 
an  elaborate  Einleitung  to  his  important  work,  Die  Bedeutung 
des  JEgyptischen  Labyrinthes;  and  Dugong,  in  a  remarkable 
address  which  he  delivered  to  a  learned  society  in  Central 
Europe,  introduced  Merman's  theory  with  so  much  power  of 
sarcasm  that  it  became  a  theme  of  more  or  less  derisive  allu- 
sion to  men  of  many  tongues.  Merman  with  his  Magieodum- 
bras and  Zuzumotzis  was  on  the  way  to  become  a  proverb, 
being  used  illustratively  by  many  able  journalists  who  took 
those  names  of  questionable  things  to  be  Merman's  own  in- 
vention, "  than  which, "  said  one  of  the  graver  guides,  "  we 
can  recall  few  more  melancholy  examples  of  speculative  aber- 
ration." Naturally  the  subject  passed  into  popular  literature, 
and  figured  very  commonly  in  advertised  programmes.  The 
fluent  Loligo,  the  formidable  Shark,  and  a  younger  member  of 
his  remarkable  family  known  as  S.  Catulus,  made  a  special 
reputation  by  their  numerous  articles,  eloquent,  lively,  or 
abusive,  all  on  the  same  theme,  under  titles  ingeniously  varied, 
alliterative,  sonorous,  or  boldly  fanciful;  such  as  "Moments 
with  Mr.  Merman,"  "Mr.  Merman  and  the  Magicodumbras," 
"  Greenland  Grampus  and  Proteus  Merman, "  "  Grampian 
Heights  and  their  Climbers,  or  the  New  Excelsior."  They 
tossed  him  on  short  sentences ;  they  swathed  him  in  paragraphs 
of  winding  imagery ;  they  found  him  at  once  a  mere  plagiarist 
and  a  theorizer  of  unexampled  perversity,  ridiculously  wrong 
about  potzis  and  ignorant  of  Pali ;  they  hinted,  indeed,  at  cer- 
tain things  which  to  their  knowledge  he  had  silently  brooded 
over  in  his  boyhood,  and  seemed  tolerably  well  assured  that 
this  preposterous  attempt  to  gainsay  an  incomparable  Cetacean 
of  world-wide  fame  had  its  origin  in  a  peculiar  mixture  of  bit- 
terness and  eccentricity  which,  rightly  estimated  and  seen  in 
its  definite  proportions,  would  furnish  the  best  key  to  his  ar- 


40  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

gumentation.  All  alike  were  sorry  for  Merman's  lack  of  sound 
learning,  but  how  could  their  readers  be  sorry?  Sound  learn- 
ing would  not  have  been  amusing;  and  as  it  was,  Merman  was 
made  to  furnish  these  readers  with  amusement  at  no  expense 
of  trouble  on  their  part.  Even  burlesque  writers  looked  into 
his  book  to  see  where  it  could  be  made  use  of,  and  those  who 
did  not  know  him  were  desirous  of  meeting  him  at  dinner  as 
one  likely  to  feed  their  comic  vein. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  made  a  serious  figure  in  sermons 
under  the  name  of  "  Some  "  or  "  Others  "  who  had  attempted 
presumptuously  to  scale  eminences  too  high  and  arduous  for 
human  ability,  and  had  given  an  example  of  ignominious  fail- 
ure edifying  to  the  humble  Christian. 

All  this  might  be  very  advantageous  for  able  persons  whose 
superfluous  fund  of  expression  needed  a  paying  investment,  but 
the  effect  on  Merman  himself  was  unhappily  not  so  transient 
as  the  busy  writing  and  speaking  of  which  he  had  become  the 
occasion.  His  certainty  that  he  was  right  naturally  got 
stronger  in  proportion  as  the  spirit  of  resistance  was  stimu- 
lated. The  scorn  and  unfairness  with  which  he  felt  himself 
to  have  been  treated  by  those  really  competent  to  appreciate 
his  ideas  had  galled  him  and  ^made  a  chronic  sore ;  and  the 
exultant  chorus  of  the  incompetent  seemed  a  pouring  of  vine- 
gar on  his  wound.  His  brain  became  a  registry  of  the  foolish 
and  ignorant  objections  made  against  him,  and  of  continually 
amplified  answers  to  these  objections.  Unable  to  get  his 
answers  printed,  he  had  recourse  to  that  more  primitive  mode 
of  publication,  oral  transmission  or  button-holding,  now  gen- 
erally regarded  as  a  troublesome  survival,  and  the  once  pleas- 
ant, flexible  Merman  was  on  the  way  to  be  shunned  as  a  bore. 
His  interest  in  new  acquaintances  turned  chiefly  on  the  pos- 
sibility that  they  would  care  about  the  Magicodumbras  and 
Zuzumotzis;  that  they  would  listen  to  his  complaints  and  ex- 
posures of  unfairness,  and  not  only  accept  copies  of  what  he 
had  written  on  the  subject,  but  send  him  appreciative  letters 
in  acknowledgment.  Repeated  disappointment  of  such  hopes 
tended  to  embitter  him,  and  not  the  less  because  after  a  while 
the  fashion  of  mentioning  him  died  out,  allusions  to  his  theory 
were  less  understood,  and  people  could  only  pretend  to  re- 


HOW  WE  ENCOURAGE   RESEARCH.  41 

member  it.  And  all  the  while  Merman  was  perfectly  sure 
that  his  very  opponents  who  had  knowledge  enough  to  be 
capable  judges  were  aware  that  his  book,  whatever  errors  of 
statement  they  might  detect  in  it,  had  served  as  a  sort  of  di- 
vining rod,  pointing  out  hidden  sources  of  historical  interpre- 
tation; nay,  his  jealous  examination  discerned  in  a  new  work 
by  Grampus  himself  a  certain  shifting  of  ground  which — so  poor 
Merman  declared — was  the  sign  of  an  intention  gradually  to 
appropriate  the  views  of  the  man  he  had  attempted  to  brand 
as  an  ignorant  impostor. 

And  Julia?  And  the  housekeeping? — the  rent,  food,  and 
clothing,  which  controversy  can  hardly  supply  unless  it  be  of 
the  kind  that  serves  as  a  recommendation  to  certain  posts. 
Controversial  pamphlets  have  been  known  to  earn  large  plums ; 
but  nothing  of  the  sort  could  be  expected  from  unpractical 
heresies  about  the  Magicodumbras  and  Zuzumotzis.  Painfully 
the  contrary.  Merman's  reputation  as  a  sober  thinker,  a  safe 
writer,  a  sound  lawyer,  was  irretrievably  injured :  the  distrac- 
tions of  controversy  had  caused  him  to  neglect  useful  editorial 
connections,  and  indeed  his  dwindling  care  for  miscellaneous 
subjects  made  his  contributions  too  dull  to  be  desirable.  Even 
if  he  could  now  have  given  a  new  turn  to  his  concentration, 
and  applied  his  talents  so  as  to  be  ready  to  show  himself  an 
exceptionally  qualified  lawyer,  he  would  only  have  been  like  an 
architect  in  competition,  too  late  with  his  superior  plans :  he 
would  not  have  had  an  opportunity  of  showing  his  qualifica- 
tion. He  was  thrown  out  of  the  course.  The  small  capital 
which  had  filled  up  deficiencies  of  income  was  almost  ex- 
hausted, and  Julia,  in  the  effort  to  make  supplies  equal  to 
wants,  had  to  use  much  ingenuity  in  diminishing  the  wants. 
The  brave  and  affectionate  woman  whose  small  outline,  so  un- 
impressive against  an  illuminated  background,  held  within  it 
a  good  share  of  feminine  heroism,  did  her  best  to  keep  up  the 
charm  of  home  and  soothe  her  husband's  excitement;  parting 
with  the  best  jewel  among  her  wedding  presents  in  order  to 
pay  rent,  without  ever  hinting  to  her  husband  that  this  sad 
result  had  come  of  his  undertaking  to  convince  people  who 
only  laughed  at  him.  She  was  a  resigned  little  creature,  and 
reflected  that  some  husbands  took  to  drinking  and  others  to 


42  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

forgery:  hers  had  only  taken  to  the  Magicodumbras  and 
Zuzumotzis,  and  was  not  unkind — only  a  little  more  indifferent 
to  her  and  the  two  children  than  she  had  ever  expected  he 
would  be,  his  mind  being  eaten  up  with  "subjects,"  and  con- 
stantly a  little  angry,  not  with  her,  but  with  everybody  else, 
especially  those  whc  were  celebrated. 

This  was  the  sad  truth.  Merman  felt  himself  ill  used  by 
the  world,  and  thought  very  much  worse  of  the  world  in  con- 
sequence. The  gall  of  his  adversaries'  ink  had  been  sucked 
into  his  system  and  ran  in  his  blood.  He  was  still  in  the 
prime  of  life,  but  his  mind  was  aged  by  that  eager  monotonous 
construction  which  comes  of  feverish  excitement  on  a  single 
topic  and  uses  up  the  intellectual  strength. 

Merman  had  never  been  a  rich  man,  but  he  was  now  con- 
spicuously poor,  and  in  need  of  the  friends  who  had  power  or 
interest  which  he  believed  they  could  exert  on  his  behalf.  Their 
omitting  or  declining  to  give  this  help  could  not  seem,  to  him 
so  clearly  as  to  them  an  inevitable  consequence  of  his  having 
become  impracticable,  or  at  least  of  his  passing  for  a  man 
whose  views  were  not  likely  to  be  safe  and  sober.  Each  friend 
in  turn  offended  him,  though  unwillingly,  and  was  suspected 
of  wishing  to  shake  him  off.  It  was  not  altogether  so;  but 
poor  Merman's  society  had  undeniably  ceased  to  be  attractive, 
and  it  was  difficult  to  help  him.  At  last  the  pressure  of  want 
urged  him  to  try  for  a  post  far  beneath  his  earlier  prospects, 
and  he  gained  it.  He  holds  it  still,  for  he  has  no  vices,  and 
his  domestic  life  has  kept  up  a  sweetening  current  of  motive 
around  and  within  him.  Nevertheless,  the  bitter  flavor  ming- 
ling itself  with  all  topics,  the  premature  weariness  and  wither- 
ing, are  irrevocably  there.  It  is  as  if  he  had  gone  through  a 
disease  which  alters  what  we  call  the  constitution.  He  has 
long  ceased  to  talk  eagerly  of  the  ideas  which  possess  him,  or 
to  attempt  making  proselytes.  The  dial  has  moved  onward, 
and  he  himself  sees  many  of  his  former  guesses  in  a  new  light. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  has  seen  what  he  foreboded,  that  the 
main  idea  which  was  at  the  root  of  his  too  rash  theorizing  has 
been  adopted  by  Grampus  and  received  with  general  respect, 
no  reference  being  heard  to  the  ridiculous  figure  this  important 
conception  made  when  ushered  in  by  the  incompetent  "  Others." 


HOW  WE  ENCOURAGE  RESEARCH.  43 

Now  and  then,  on  rare  occasions,  when  a  sympathetic  tete- 
a-tete  has  restored  some  of  his  old  expansiveness,  he  will  tell 
a  companion  in  a  railway  carriage,  or  other  place  of  meeting 
favorable  to  autobiographical  confidences,  what  has  been  the 
course  of  things  in  his  particular  case,  as  an  example  of  the 
justice  to  be  expected  of  the  world.  The  companion  usually 
allows  for  the  bitterness  of  a  disappointed  man,  and  is  se- 
cretly disinclined  to  believe  that  Grampus  was  to  blame. 


IV. 

A  MAN   SURPRISED  AT   HIS   ORIGINALITY. 

AMONG  the  many  acute  sayings  of  La  Rochefoucauld,  there 
is  hardly  one  more  acute  than  this :  "  La  plus  grande  ambition 
n'en  a  pas  la  moindre  apparence  lorsqu'elle  se  rencontre  dans 
une  impossibility  absolue  d'arriver  ou  elle  aspire."  Some  of 
us  might  do  well  to  use  this  hint  in  our  treatment  of  ac- 
quaintances and  friends  from  whom  we  are  expecting  grati- 
tude because  we  are  so  very  kind  in  thinking  of  them,  inviting 
them,  and  even  listening  to  what  they  say — considering  how 
insignificant  they  must  feel  themselves  to  be.  We  are  often 
fallaciously  confident  in  supposing  that  our  friend's  state  of 
mind  is  appropriate  to  our  moderate  estimate  of  his  importance : 
almost  as  if  we  imagined  the  humble  mollusk  (so  useful  as  an 
illustration)  to  have  a  sense  of  his  own  exceeding  softness  and 
low  place  in  the  scale  of  being.  Your  mollusk,  on  the  con- 
trary, is  inwardly  objecting  to  every  other  grade  of  solid 
rather  than  to  himself.  Accustomed  to  observe  what  we  think 
an  unwarrantable  conceit  exhibiting  itself  in  ridiculous  preten- 
sions and  forwardness  to  play  the  lion's  part,  in  obvious  self- 
complacency  and  loud  peremptoriness,  we  are  not  on  the  alert 
to  detect  the  egoistic  claims  of  a  more  exorbitant  kind  often 
hidden  under  an  apparent  neutrality  or  an  acquiescence  in  being 
put  out  of  the  question. 

Thoughts  of  this  kind  occurred  to  me  yesterday  when  I  saw 
the  name  of  Lentulus  in  the  obituary.  The  majority  of  his 
acquaintances,  I  imagine,  have  always  thought  of  him  as  a 
man  justly  unpretending  and  ac  nobody's  rival;  but  some  of 
them  have  perhaps  been  struck  with  surprise  at  his  reserve  in 
praising  the  works  of  his  contemporaries,  and  have  now  and 
then  felt  themselves  in  need  of  a  key  to  his  remarks  on  men 
of  celebrity  in  various  departments.  He  was  a  man  of  fair 


A  MAN  SURPRISED  AT  HIS  ORIGINALITY.  45 

position,  deriving  his  income  from  a  business  in  which  he  did 
nothing,  at  leisure  to  frequent  clubs  and  at  ease  in  giving  din- 
ners ;  well-looking,  polite,  and  generally  acceptable  in  society 
as  a  part  of  what  we  may  call  its  bread-crumb — the  neutral 
basis  needful  for  the  plums  and  spice.  Why,  then,  did  he 
speak  of  the  modern  Maro  or  the  modern  Flaccus  with  a  pecu- 
liarity in  his  tone  of  assent  to  other  people's  praise  which 
might  almost  have  led  you  to  suppose  that  the  eminent  poet 
had  borrowed  money  of  him  and  showed  an  indisposition  to 
repay?  He  had  no  criticism  to  offer,  no  sign  of  objection 
more  specific  than  a  slight  cough,  a  scarcely  perceptible  pause 
before  assenting,  and  an  air  of  self-control  in  his  utterance — 
as  if  certain  considerations  had  determined  him  not  to  inform 
against  the  so-called  poet,  who  to  his  knowledge  was  a  mere 
versifier.  If  you  had  questioned  him  closely,  he  would  per- 
haps have  confessed  that  he  did  think  something  better  might 
be  done  in  the  way  of  Eclogues  and  Georgics,  or  of  Odes 
and  Epodes,  and  that  to  his  mind  poetry  was  something  very 
different  from  what  had  hitherto  been  known  under  that 
name. 

For  my  own  part,  being  of  a  superstitious  nature,  given  read- 
ily to  imagine  alarming  causes,  I  immediately,  on  first  getting 
these  mystic  hints  from  Lentulus,  concluded  that  he  held  a 
number  of  entirely  original  poems,  or  at  the  very  least  a  revo- 
lutionary treatise  on  poetics,  in  that  melancholy  manuscript 
state  to  which  works  excelling  all  that  is  ever  printed  are  nec- 
essarily condemned;  and  I  was  long  timid  in  speaking  of  the 
poets  when  he  was  present.  For  what  might  not  Lentulus 
have  done,  or  be  profoundly  aware  of,  that  would  make  my 
ignorant  impressions  ridiculous?  One  cannot  well  be  sure  of 
the  negative  in  such  a  case,  except  through  certain  positives 
that  bear  witness  to  it;  and  those  witnesses  are  not  always  to 
be  got  hold  of.  But  time  wearing  on,  I  perceived  that  the 
attitude  of  Lentulus  toward  the  philosophers  was  essentially 
the  same  as  his  attitude  toward  the  poets;  nay,  there  was 
something  so  much  more  decided  in  his  mode  of  closing  his 
mouth  after  brief  speech  on  the  former,  there  was  such  an  air 
of  rapt  consciousness  in  his  private  hints  as  to  his  conviction 
that  all  thinking  hitherto  had  been  an  elaborate  mistake,  and 


46  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

as  to  his  own  power  of  conceiving  a  sound  basis  for  a  lasting 
superstructure,  that  I  began  to  believe  less  in  the  poetical 
stores,  and  to  infer  that  the  line  of  Lentulus  lay  rather  in  the 
rational  criticism  of  our  beliefs  and  in  systematic  construc- 
tion. In  this  case  I  did  not  figure  to  myself  the  existence  of 
formidable  manuscripts  ready  for  the  press ;  for  great  thinkers 
are  known  to  carry  their  theories  growing  within  their  minds 
long  before  committing  them  to  paper,  and  the  ideas  which 
made  a  new  passion  for  them  when  their  locks  were  jet  or 
auburn,  remained  perilously  unwritten,  an  inwardly  develop- 
ing condition  of  their  successive  selves,  until  the  locks  are 
gray  or  scanty.  I  only  meditated  improvingly  on  the  way 
in  which  a  man  of  exceptional  faculties,  and  even  carrying 
within  him  some  of  that  fierce  refiner's  fire  which  is  to  purge 
away  the  dross  of  human  error,  may  move  about  in  society 
totally  unrecognized,  regarded  as  a  person  whose  opinion  is 
superfluous,  and  only  rising  into  a  power  in  emergencies  of 
threatened  blackballing.  Imagine  a  Descartes  or  a  Locke 
being  recognized  for  nothing  more  than  a  good  fellow  and 
a  perfect  gentleman — what  a  painful  view  does  such  a  pic- 
ture suggest  of  impenetrable  dulness  in  the  society  around 
them! 

I  would  at  all  times  rather  be  reduced  to  a  cheaper  estimate 
of  a  particular  person,  if  by  that  means  I  can  get  a  more  cheer- 
ful view  of  my  fellow-men  generally ;  and  I  confess  that  in  a 
certain  curiosity  which  led  me  to  cultivate  Lentulus' s  acquaint- 
ance, my  hope  leaned  to  the  discovery  that  he  was  a  less  re- 
markable man  than  he  had  seemed  to  imply.  It  would  have 
been  a  grief  to  discover  that  he  was  bitter  or  malicious,  but  by 
finding  him  to  be  neither  a  mighty  poet,  nor  a  revolutionary 
poetical  critic,  nor  an  epoch-making  philosopher,  my  admira- 
tion for  the  poets  and  thinkers  whom  he  rated  so  low  would 
recover  all  its  buoyancy,  and  I  should  not  be  left  to  trust  to 
that  very  suspicious  sort  of  merit  which  constitutes  an  excep- 
tion in  the  history  of  mankind,  and  recommends  itself  as  the 
total  abolitionist  of  all  previous  claims  on  our  confidence. 
You  are  not  greatly  surprised  at  the  infirm  logic  of  the  coach- 
man who  would  persuade  you  to  engage  him  by  insisting  that 
any  other  would  be  sure  to  rob  you  in  the  matter  of  hay  and 


A  MAN  SURPRISED  AT  HIS  ORIGINALITY.  47 

corn,  thus  demanding  a  difficult  belief  in  him  as  the  solt  ex- 
ception from  the  frailties  of  his  calling  j  but  it  is  rather  aston- 
ishing that  the  wholesale  decriers  of  mankind  and  its  per- 
formances should  be  even  more  unwary  in  their  reasoning  than 
the  coachman,  since  each  of  them  not  merely  confides  in  your 
regarding  himself  as  an  exception,  but  overlooks  the  almost 
certain  fact  that  you  are  wondering  whether  he  inwardly 
excepts  you.  Now,  conscious  of  entertaining  some  common 
opinions  which  seemed  to  fall  under  the  mildly  intimated  but 
sweeping  ban  of  Lentulus,  my  self-complacency  was  a  little 
concerned. 

Hence  I  deliberately  attempted  to  draw  out  Lentulus  in 
private  dialogue,  for  it  is  the  reverse  of  injury  to  a  man  to 
offer  him  that  hearing  which  he  seems  to  have  found  nowhere 
else.  And  for  whatever  purposes  silence  may  be  equal  to  gold, 
it  cannot  be  safely  taken  as  an  indication  of  specific  ideas. 
I  sought  to  know  why  Lentulus  was  more  than  indifferent  to 
the  poets,  and  what  was  that  new  poetry  which  he  had  either 
written  or,  as  to  its  principles,  distinctly  conceived.  But  I 
presently  found  that  he  knew  very  little  of  any  particular  poet, 
and  had  a  general  notion  of  poetry  as  the  use  of  artificial 
language  to  express  unreal  sentiments:  he  instanced  "The 
Giaour,"  "Lalla  Eookh,"  "The  Pleasures  of  Hope,"  and 
"  Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  King  " ;  adding,  "  and  plenty  more." 
On  my  observing  that  he  probably  preferred  a  larger,  simpler 
•style,  he  emphatically  assented.  "Have  you  not,"  said  I, 
"written  something  of  that  order?" — "No;  but  I  often  com- 
pose as  I  go  along.  I  see  how  things  might  be  written  as  fine 
as  Ossian,  only  with  true  ideas.  The  world  has  no  notion 
what  poetry  will  be." 

It  was  impossible  to  disprove  this,  and  I  am  always  glad  to 
believe  that  the  poverty  of  our  imagination  is  no  measure  of 
the  world's  resources.  Our  posterity  will  no  doubt  get  fuel  in 
ways  that  we  are  unable  to  devise  for  them.  But  what  this 
conversation  persuaded  me  of  was,  that  the  birth  with  which 
the  mind  of  Lentulus  was  pregnant  could  not  be  poetry,  though 
I  did  not  question  that  he  composed  as  he  went  along,  and 
that  the  exercise  was  accompanied  with  a  great  sense  of  power. 
This  is  a  frequent  experience  in  dreams,  and  much  of  our  wak- 


48  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

ing  experience  is  but  a  dream  in  the  daylight.  Nay,  for 
what  I  saw,  the  compositions  might  be  fairly  classed  as 
Ossianic.  But  I  was  satisfied  that  Lentulus  could  not  dis- 
turb my  grateful  admiration  for  the  poets  of  all  ages  by 
eclipsing  them,  or  by  putting  them  under  a  new  electric 
light  of  criticism. 

Still,  he  had  himself  thrown  the  chief  emphasis  of  his  pro- 
test and  his  consciousness  of  corrective  illumination  on  the 
philosophic  thinking  of  our  race ;  and  his  tone  in  assuring  me 
that  everything  which  had  been  done  in  that  way  was  wrong 
— that  Plato,  Eobert  Owen,  and  Dr.  Tuffie  who  wrote  in  the 
"Regulator,"  were  all  equally  mistaken — gave  my  supersti- 
tious nature  a  thrill  of  anxiety.  After  what  had  passed  about 
the  poets,  it  did  not  seem  likely  that  Lentulus  had  all  systems 
by  heart;  but  who  could  say  he  had  not  seized  that  thread 
which  may  somewhere  hang  out  loosely  from  the  web  of  things 
and  be  the  clew  of  unravelment?  We  need  not  go  far  to  learn 
that  a  prophet  is  not  made  by  erudition.  Lentulus  at  least 
had  not  the  bias  of  a  school ;  and  if  it  turned  out  that  he  was 
in  agreement  with  any  celebrated  thinker,  ancient  or  modern, 
the  agreement  would  have  the  value  of  an  undesigned  coinci- 
dence not  due  to  forgotten  reading.  It  was  therefore  with  re- 
newed curiosity  that  I  engaged  him  on  this  large  subject — the 
universal  erroneousness  of  thinking  up  to  the  period  when 
Lentulus  began  that  process.  And  here  I  found  him  more 
copious  than  on  the  theme  of  poetry.  He  admitted  that  he 
did  contemplate  writing  down  his  thoughts,  but  his  difficulty 
was  their  abundance.  Apparently  he  was  like  the  woodcut- 
ter entering  the  thick  forest  and  saying,  "  Where  shall  I  be- 
gin? "  The  same  obstacle  appeared  in  a  minor  degree  to  cling 
about  his  verbal  exposition,  and  accounted  perhaps  for  his 
rather  helter-skelter  choice  of  remarks  bearing  on  the  number 
of  unaddressed  letters  sent  to  the  post-office;  on  what  logic 
really  is,  as  tending  to  support  the  buoyancy  of  human  me- 
diums and  mahogany  tables ;  on  the  probability  of  all  miracles 
under  all  religions  when  explained  by  hidden  laws,  and  my 
unreasonableness  in  supposing  that  their  prqfuse  occurrence  at 
half  a  guinea  an  hour  in  recent  times  was  anything  more  than 
a  coincidence ;  on  the  haphazard  way  in  which  marriages  are 


A  MAN  SURPRISED  AT  HIS  ORIGINALITY.  49 

determined — showing  the  baselessness  of  social  and  moral 
schemes ;  and  on  his  expectation  that  he  should  offend  the  sci- 
entific world  when  he  told  them  what  he  thought  of  electricity 
as  an  agent. 

No  man's  appearance  could  be  graver  or  more  gentlemanlike 
than  that  of  Lentulus  as  we  walked  along  the  Mall  while  he 
delivered  these  observations,  understood  by  himself  to  have  a 
regenerative  bearing  on  human  society.  His  wristbands  and 
black  gloves,  his  hat  and  nicely  clipped  hair,  his  laudable 
moderation  in  beard,  and  his  evident  discrimination  in  choos- 
ing his  tailor,  all  seemed  to  excuse  the  prevalent  estimate  of 
him  as  a  man  untainted  with  heterodoxy,  and  likely  to  be  so 
unencumbered  with  opinions  that  he  would  always  be  useful 
as  an  assenting  and  admiring  listener.  Men  of  science  seeing 
him  at  their  lectures  doubtless  flattered  themselves  that  he 
came  to  learn  from  them ;  the  philosophic  ornaments  of  our 
time,  expounding  some  of  their  luminous  ideas  in  the  social 
circle,  took  the  meditative  gaze  of  Lentulus  for  one  of  surprise 
not  unmixed  with  a  just  reverence  at  such  close  reasoning 
toward  so  novel  a  conclusion ;  and  those  who  are  called  men  of 
the  world  considered  him  a  good  fellow  who  might  be  asked 
to  vote  for  a  friend  of  their  own  and  would  have  no  trouble- 
some notions  to  make  him  unaccommodating.  You  perceive 
how  very  much  they  were  all  mistaken,  except  in  qualifying 
him  as  a  good  fellow. 

This  Lentulus  certainly  was,  in  the  sense  of  being  free  from 
envy,  hatred,  and  malice ;  and  such  freedom  was  all  the  more 
remarkable  an  indication  of  native  benignity,  because  of  his 
gaseous,  inimitably  expansive  conceit.  Yes,  conceit ;  for  that 
his  enormous  and  contentedly  ignorant  confidence  in  his  own 
rambling  thoughts  was  usually  clad  in  a  decent  silence,  is 
no  reason  why  it  should  be  less  strictly  called  by  the  name 
directly  implying  a  complacent  self-estimate  unwarranted  by 
performance.  Nay,  the  total  privacy  in  which  he  enjoyed 
his  consciousness  of  inspiration  was  the  very  condition  of  its 
undisturbed  placid  nourishment  and  gigantic  growth.  Your 
audibly  arrogant  man  exposes  himself  to  tests :  in  attempting 
to  make  an  impression  on  others  ne  may  possibly  (not  always) 
be  made  to  feel  his  own  lack  of  definiteness ;  and  the  demand 
4 


50  THEOPHRASTCS  SUCH. 

for  definiteness  is  to  all  of  us  a  needful  check  on  vague  depre- 
ciation of  what  others  do,  and  vague  ecstatic  trust  in  our  own 
superior  ability.  But  Lentulus  was  at  once  so  unreceptive, 
and  so  little  gifted  with  the  power  of  displaying  his  miscel- 
laneous deficiency  of  information,  that  there  was  really  noth- 
ing to  hinder  his  astonishment  at  the  spontaneous  crop  of 
ideas  which  his  mind  secretly  yielded.  If  it  occurred  to  him 
that  there  were  more  meanings  than  one  for  the  word  "  mo- 
tive," since  it  sometimes  meant  the  end  aimed  at  and  some- 
times the  feeling  that  prompted  the  aiming,  and  that  the  word 
"cause"  was  also  of  changeable  import,  he  was  naturally 
struck  with  the  truth  of  his  own  perception,  and  was  con- 
vinced that  if  this  vein  were  well  followed  out  much  might  be 
made  of  it.  Men  were  evidently  in  the  wrong  about  cause  and 
effect,  else  why  was  society  in  the  confused  state  we  behold? 
And  as  to  motive,  Lentulus  felt  that  when  he  came  to  write 
down  his  views  he  should  look  deeply  into  this  kind  of  subject 
and  show  up  thereby  the  anomalies  of  our  social  institutions ; 
meanwhile  the  various  aspects  of  "  motive  "  and  "  cause  "  flitted 
about  among  the  motley  crowd  of  ideas  which  he  regarded  as 
original,  and  pregnant  with  reformative  efficacy.  For  his  un- 
affected good-will  made  him  regard  all  his  insight  as  only 
valuable  because  it  tended  toward  reform. 

The  respectable  man  had  got  into  his  illusory  maze  of  dis- 
coveries by  letting  go  that  clew  of  conformity  in  his  thinking 
which  he  had  kept  fast  hold  of  in  his  tailoring  and  manners. 
He  regarded  heterodoxy  as  a  power  in  itself,  and  took  his  in- 
acquaintance  with  doctrines  for  a  creative  dissidence.  But  his 
epitaph  needs  not  to  be  a  melancholy  one.  His  benevolent 
disposition  was  more  effective  for  good  than  his  silent  pre- 
sumption for  harm.  He  might  have  been  mischievoiis  but  for 
the  lack  of  words :  instead  of  being  astonished  at  his  inspira- 
tions in  private,  he  might  have  clad  his  addled  originalities, 
disjointed  commonplaces,  blind  denials,  and  balloon-like  con- 
clusions, in  that  mighty  sort  of  language  which  would  have 
made  a  new  Koran  for  a  knot  of  followers.  I  mean  no  disre- 
spect to  the  ancient  Koran,  but  one  would  not  desire  the  roc 
to  lay  more  eggs  and  give  us  a  whole  wing-flapping  brood  to 
soar  and  make  twilight. 


A  MAN  SURPRISED  AT  HIS  ORIGINALITY.  61 

Peace  be  with  Lentulus,  for  he  has  left  us  in  peace.  Blessed 
is  the  man  who,  having  nothing  to  say,  abstains  from  giving 
us  wordy  evidence  of  the  fact — from  calling  on  us  to  look 
through  a  heap  of  millet-seed  in  order  to  be  sure  that  there  is 
no  pearl  in  it. 


V. 

A  TOO   DEFERENTIAL   MAN. 

A  LITTLE  unpremeditated  insincerity  must  be  indulged  under 
the  stress  of  social  intercourse.  The  talk  even  of  an  honest 
man  must  often  represent  merely  his  wish  to  be  inoffensive  or 
agreeable  rather  than  his  genuine  opinion  or  feeling  on  the 
matter  in  hand.  His  thought,  if  uttered,  might  be  wounding; 
or  he  has  not  the  ability  to  utter  it  with  exactness  and  snatches 
at  a  loose  paraphrase ;  or  he  has  really  no  genuine  thought  on 
the  question  and  is  driven  to  fill  up  the  vacancy  by  borrowing 
the  remarks  in  vogue.  These  are  the  winds  and  currents  we 
have  all  to  steer  amongst,  and  they  are  often  too  strong  for 
our  truthfulness  or  our  wit.  Let  us  not  bear  too  hardly  on 
each  other  for  this  common  incidental  frailty,  or  think  that 
we  rise  superior  to  it  by  dropping  all  considerateness  and 
deference. 

But  there  are  studious,  deliberate  forms  of  insincerity  which 
it  is  fair  to  be  impatient  with :  Hinze's,  for  example.  From 
his  name  you  might  suppose  him  to  be  German :  in  fact,  his 
family  is  Alsatian,  but  has  been  settled  in  England  for  more 
than  one  generation.  He  is  the  superlatively  deferential  man, 
and  walks  about  with  murmured  wonder  at  the  wisdom  and 
discernment  of  everybody  who  talks  to  him.  He  cultivates  the 
low-toned  tete-a-tete,  keeping  his  hat  carefully  in  his  hand  and 
often  stroking  it,  while  he  smiles  with  downcast  eyes,  as  if 
to  relieve  his  feelings  under  the  pressure  of  the  remarkable 
conversation  which  it  is  his  honor  to  enjoy  at  the  present  mo- 
ment. I  confess  to  some  rage  on  hearing  him  yesterday  talk- 
ing to  Felicia,  who  is  certainly  a  clever  woman,  and,  without 
any  unusual  desire  to  show  her  cleverness,  occasionally  says 
something  of  her  own  or  makes  an  allusion  which  is  not  quite 
common.  Still,  it  must  happen  to  her  as  to  every  one  else  tq 


A  TOO  DEFERENTIAL  MAN.  53 

speak  of  many  subjects  on  which  the  best  things  were  said 
loug  ago,  and  in  conversation  with  a  person  who  has  been 
newly  introduced  those  well-worn  themes  naturally  recur  as  a 
further  development  of  salutations  and  preliminary  media  of 
understanding,  such  as  pipes,  chocolate,  or  mastic-chewing, 
which  serve  to  confirm  the  impression  that  our  new  acquaint- 
ance is  on  a  civilized  footing  and  has  enough  regard  for  formu- 
las to  save  us  from  shocking  outbursts  of  individualism,  to 
which  we  are  always  exposed  with  the  tamest  bear  or  baboon. 
Considered  purely  as  a  matter  of  information,  it  cannot  any 
longer  be  important  for  us  to  learn  that  a  British  subject  in- 
cluded in  the  last  census  holds  Shakespeare  to  be  supreme  in 
the  presentation  of  character ;  still,  it  is  as  admissible  for  any 
one  to  make  this  statement  about  himself  as  to  rub  his  hands 
and  tell  you  that  the  air  is  brisk,  if  only  he  will  let  it  fall  as 
a  matter  of  course,  with  a  parenthetic  lightness,  and  not  an- 
nounce his  adhesion  to  a  commonplace  with  an  emphatic  in- 
sistence, as  if  it  were  a  proof  of  singular  insight.  We  mortals 
should  chiefly  like  to  talk  to  each  other  out  of  good  will  and 
fellowship,  not  for  the  sake  of  hearing  revelations  or  being 
stimulated  by  witticisms ;  and  I  have  usually  found  that  it  is 
the  rather  dull  person  who  appears  to  be  disgusted  with  his 
contemporaries  because  they  are  not  always  strikingly  original, 
and  to  satisfy  whom  the  party  at  a  country  house  should  have 
included  the  prophet  Isaiah,  Plato,  Francis  Bacon,  and  Vol- 
taire. It  is  always  your  heaviest  bore  who  is  astonished  at 
the  tamenesa  of  modern  celebrities :  naturally ;  for  a  little  of 
his  company  has  reduced  them  to  a  state  of  flaccid  fatigue. 
It  is  right  and  meet  that  there  should  be  an  abundant  utter- 
ance of  good  sound  commonplaces.  Part  of  an  agreeable 
talker's  charm  is  that  he  lets  them  fall  continually  with  no 
more  than  their  due  emphasis.  Giving  a  pleasant  voice  to 
what  we  are  all  well  assured  of,  makes  a  sort  of  wholesome 
air  for  more  special  and  dubious  remark  to  move  in. 

Hence  it  seemed  to  me  far  from  unbecoming  in  Felicia  that 
in  her  first  dialogue  with  Hinze,  previously  quite  a  stranger  to 
her,  her  observations  were  those  of  an  ordinarily  refined  and 
well-educated  woman  on  standard  subjects,  and  might  have 
been  printed  in  a  manual  of  polite  topics  and  creditable  opin- 


54  THEOPHRATSUS  SUCH. 

ions.  She  had  no  desire  to  astonish  a  man  of  whom  she  had 
heard  nothing  particular.  It  was  all  the  more  exasperating 
to  see  and  hear  Hinze's  reception  of  her  well-bred  conformi- 
ties. Felicia's  acquaintances  know  her  as  the  suitable  wife 
of  a  distinguished  man,  a  sensible,  vivacious,  kindly  disposed 
woman,  helping  her  husband  with  graceful  apologies  writ- 
ten and  spoken,  and  making  her  receptions  agreeable  to  all 
comers.  But  you  would  have  imagined  that  Hinze  had  been 
prepared  by  general  report  to  regard  this  introduction  to  her 
as  an  opportunity  comparable  to  an  audience  of  the  Delphic 
Sibyl.  When  she  had  delivered  herself  on  the  changes  in 
Italian  travel,  on  the  difficulty  of  reading  Ariosto  in  these 
busy  times,  on  the  want  of  equilibrium  in  French  political 
affairs,  and  on  the  pre-eminence  of  German  music,  he  would 
know  what  to  think.  Felicia  was  evidently  embarrassed  by 
his  reverent  wonder,  and,  in  dread  lest  she  should  seem  to  be 
playing  the  oracle,  became  somewhat  confused,  stumbling  on 
her  answers  rather  than  choosing  them.  But  this  made  no 
difference  to  Hinze's  rapt  attention  and  subdued  eagerness  of 
inquiry.  He  continued  to  put  large  questions,  bending  his 
head  slightly  that  his  eyes  might  be  a  little  lifted  in  awaiting 
her  reply. 

"  What,  may  I  ask,  is  your  opinion  as  to  the  state  of  Art  in 
England?" 

"Oh,"  said  Felicia,  with  a  light  deprecatory  laugh,  "I 
think  it  suffers  from  two  diseases — bad  taste  in  the  patrons 
and  want  of  inspiration  in  the  artists." 

"  That  is  true  indeed, "  said  Hinze,  in  an  undertone  of  deep 
conviction.  "  You  have  put  your  finger  with  strict  accuracy 
on  the  causes  of  decline.  To  a  cultivated  taste  like  yours  this 
must  be  particularly  painful." 

"  I  did  not  say  there  was  actual  decline, "  said  Felicia,  with 
a  touch  of  brusquerie.  "  I  don't  set  myself  up  as  the  great 
personage  whom  nothing  can  please." 

"  That  would  be  too  severe  a  misfortune  for  others, "  says 
my  complimentary  ape.  "  You  approve,  perhaps,  of  Rose- 
mary's '  Babes  in  the  Wood,'  as  something  fresh  and  naive  in 
sculpture?" 

"I  think  it  enchanting." 


A  TOO   DEFERENTIAL  MAN.  55 

"  Does  he  know  that?     Or  will  you  permit  me  to  tell  him?  " 

"Heaven  forbid!  It  would  be  an  impertinence  in  me  to 
praise  a  work  of  his — to  pronounce  on  its  quality;  and  that  I 
happen  to  like  it  can  be  of  no  consequence  to  him." 

Here  was  an  occasion  for  Hiuze  to  smile  down  on  his  hat 
and  stroke  it — Felicia's  ignorance  that  her  praise  was  inesti- 
mable being  peculiarly  noteworthy  to  an  observer  of  mankind. 
Presently  he  was  quite  sure  that  her  favorite  author  was 
Shakespeare,  and  wished  to  know  what  she  thought  of  Ham- 
let's madness.  When  she  had  quoted  Wilhelin  Meister  on  this 
point,  and  had  afterward  testified  that  "  Lear "  was  beyond 
adequate  presentation,  that  "  Julius  Caesar  "  was  an  effective 
acting  play,  and  that  a  poet  may  know  a  good  deal  about 
human  nature  while  knowing  little  of  geography,  Hinze  ap- 
peared so  impressed  with  the  plentitude  of  these  revelations 
that  he  recapitulated  them,  weaving  them  together  with 
threads  of  compliment — "  As  you  very  justly  observed  " ;  and 
— "  It  is  most  true,  as  you  say  " ;  and — "  It  were  well  if  others 
noted  what  you  have  remarked." 

Some  listeners  incautious  in  their  epithets  would  have  called 
Hinze  an  "ass."  For  my  part  I  would  never  insult  that  in- 
telligent and  unpretending  animal  who  no  doubt  brays  with 
perfect  simplicity  and  substantial  meaning  to  those  acquainted 
with  his  idiom,  and  if  he  feigns  more  submission  than  he  feels, 
has  weighty  reasons  for  doing  so — I  would  never,  I  say,  insult 
that  historic  and  ill -appreciated  animal,  the  ass,  by  giving  his 
name  to  a  man  whose  continuous  pretence  is  so  shallow  in  its 
motive,  so  unexcused  by  any  sharp  appetite  as  this  of  Hinze's. 

But  perhaps  you  would  say  that  his  adulatory  manner  was 
originally  adopted  under  strong  promptings  of  self-interest, 
and  that  his  absurdly  over-acted  deference  to  persons  from 
whom  he  expects  no  patronage  is  the  unreflecting  persistence  of 
habit — just  as  those  who  live  with  the  deaf  will  shout  to  every- 
body else. 

And  you  might  indeed  imagine  that  in  talking  to  Tulpian, 
who  has  considerable  interest  at  his  disposal,  Hinze  had  a  de- 
sired appointment  in  his  mind.  Tulpian  is  appealed  to  on 
innumerable  subjects,  and  if  he  is  unwilling  to  express  him- 
self on  any  one  of  them,  says  so  with  instructive  copiousness : 


•~>6  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

he  is  much  listened  to,  and  his  utterances  are  registered  and 
reported  with  more  or  less  exactitude.  But  I  think  he  has  no 
other  listener  who  comports  himself  as  Hinze  does — who, 
figuratively  speaking,  carries  about  a  small  spoon  ready  to  pick 
up  any  dusty  crumb  of  opinion  that  the  eloquent  man  may 
have  let  drop.  Tulpian,  with  reverence  be  it  said,  has  some 
rather  absurd  notions,  such  as  a  mind  of  large  discourse  often 
finds  room  for :  they  slip  about  among  his  higher  conceptions 
and  multitudinous  acquirements  like  disreputable  characters 
at  a  national  celebration  in  some  vast  cathedral,  where  to  the 
ardent  soul  all  is  glorified  by  rainbow  light  and  grand  associa- 
tions :  any  vulgar  detective  knows  them  for  what  they  are. 
But  Hinze  is  especially  fervid  in  his  desire  to  hear  Tulpian 
dilate  on  his  crotchets,  and  is  rather  troublesome  to  bystanders 
in  asking  them  whether  they  have  read  the  various  fugitive 
writings  in  which  these  crotchets  have  been  published.  If  an 
expert  is  explaining  some  matter  on  which  you  desire  to  know 
the  evidence,  Hinze  teases  you  with  Tulpian' s  guesses,  and 
asks  the  expert  what  he  thinks  of  them. 

In  general,  Hinze  delights  in  the  citation  of  opinions,  and 
would  hardly  remark  that  the  sun  shone  without  an  air  of  re-* 
spectful  appeal  or  fervid  adhesion.  The  "  Iliad, "  one  sees, 
would  impress  him  little  if  it  were  not  for  what  Mr.  Fugleman 
has  lately  said  about  it;  and  if  you  mention  an  image  or  sen- 
timent in  Chaucer  he  seems  not  to  heed  the  bearing  of  your 
reference,  but  immediately  tells  you  that  Mr.  Hautboy,  too, 
regards  Chaucer  as  a  poet  of  the  first  order,  and  he  is  de- 
lighted to  find  that  two  such  judges  as  you  and  Hautboy  are 
at  one. 

What  is  the  reason  of  all  this  subdued  eostasy,  moving  about, 
hat  in  hand,  with  well-dressed  hair  and  attitudes  of  unim- 
peachable correctness?  Some  persons  conscious  of  sagacity 
decide  at  once  that  Hinze  knows  what  he  is  about  in  flattering 
Tulpian,  and  has  a  carefully  appraised  end  to  serve  though 
they  may  not  see  it.  They  are  misled  by  the  common  mistake 
of  supposing  that  men's  behavior,  whether  habitual  or  occa- 
sional, is  chiefly  determined  by  a  distinctly  conceived  motive, 
a  definite  object  to  be  gained  or  a  definite  evil  to  be  avoided. 
The  truth  is,  that,  the  primitive  wants  of  nature  once  toler- 


A  TOO  DEFERENTIAL  MAN.  57 

ably  satisfied,  the  majority  of  mankind,  even  in  a  civilized  life 
full  of  solicitations,  are  with  difficulty  aroused  to  the  distinct 
conception  of  an  object  toward  which  they  will  direct  their 
actions  with  careful  adaptation,  and  it  is  yet  rarer  to  find  one 
who  can  persist  in  the  systematic  pursuit  of  such  an  end. 
Few  lives  are  shaped,  few  characters  formed,  by  the  contem- 
plation of  definite  consequences  seen  from  a  distance  and  made 
the  goal  of  continuous  effort  or  the  beacon  of  a  constantly 
avoided  danger :  such  control  by  foresight,  such  vivid  pictur- 
ing and  practical  logic  are  the  distinction  of  exceptionally 
strong  natures ;  but  society  is  chiefly  made  up  of  human  be- 
ings whose  daily  acts  are  all  performed  either  in  unreflecting 
obedience  to  custom  and  routine  or  from  immediate  promptings 
of  thought  or  feeling  to  execute  an  immediate  purpose.  They 
pay  their  poor-rates,  give  their  vote  in  affairs  political  or 
parochial,  wear  a  certain  amount  of  starch,  hinder  boys  from 
tormenting  the  helpless,  and  spend  money  on  tedious  observ- 
ances called  pleasures,  without  mentally  adjusting  these  prac- 
tices to  their  own  well-understood  interest  or  to  the  general, 
ultimate  welfare  of  the  human  race ;  and  when  they  fall  into 
ungraceful  compliment,  excessive  smiling,  or  other  luckless 
efforts  of  complaisant  behavior,  these  are  but  the  tricks  or 
habits  gradually  formed  under  the  successive  promptings  of  a 
wish  to  be  agreeable,  stimulated  day  by  day  without  any  wid- 
ening resources  for  gratifying  the  wish.  It  does  not  in  the 
least  follow  that  they  are  seeking  by  studied  hypocrisy  to 
get  something  for  themselves.  And  so  with  Hinze's  deferen- 
tial bearing,  complimentary  parentheses,  and  worshipful  tones, 
which  seem  to  some  like  the  overacting  of  a  part  in  a  comedy. 
He  expects  no  appointment  or  other  appreciable  gain  through 
Tulpian's  favor;  he  has  no  doubleness  toward  Felicia;  there 
is  no  sneering  or  backbiting  obverse  to  his  ecstatic  admiration. 
He  is  very  well  off  in  the  world,  and  cherishes  no  unsatisfied 
ambition  that  could  feed  design  and  direct  flattery.  As  you 
perceive,  he  has  had  the  education  and  other  advantages  of  a 
gentleman  without  being  conscious  of  marked  result,  such  as 
a  decided  preference  for  any  particular  ideas  or  functions :  his 
mind  is  furnished  as  hotels  are,  with  everything  for  occasional 
and  transient  use.  But  one  cannot  be  an  Englishman  arid 


58  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

gentleman  in  general :  it  is  in  the  nature  of  things  that  one 
must  have  an  individuality,  though  it  may  be  of  an  often- 
repeated  type.  As  Hinze  in  growing  to  maturity  had  grown 
into  a  particular  form  and  expression  of  person,  so  he  neces- 
sarily gathered  a  manner  and  frame  of  speech  which  made 
him  additionally  recognizable.  His  nature  is  not  tuned  to  the 
pitch  of  a  genuine  direct  admiration,  only  to  an  attitudiniz- 
ing deference  which  does  not  fatigue  itself  with  the  formation 
of  real  judgments.  All  human  achievement  must  be  wrought 
down  to  this  spoon-meat — this  mixture  of  other  persons' 
washy  opinions  and  his  own  flux  of  reverence  for  what  is 
third-hand,  before  Hinze  can  find  a  relish  for  it. 

He  has  no  more  leading  characteristic  than  the  desire  to 
stand  well  with  those  who  are  justly  distinguished ;  he  has  no 
base  admirations,  and  you  may  know  by  his  entire  presenta- 
tion of  himself,  from  the  management  of  his  hat  to  the  angle 
at  which  he  keeps  his  right  foot,  that  he  aspires  to  correct- 
ness. Desiring  to  behave  becomingly  and  also  to  make  a  fig- 
ure in  dialogue,  he  is  only  like  the  bad  artist  whose  picture  is 
a  failure.  We  may  pity  these  ill-gifted  strivers,  but  not  pre- 
tend that  their  works  are  pleasant  to  behold.  A  man  is  bound 
to  know  something  of  his  own  weight  and  muscular  dexterity, 
and  the  puny  athlete  is  called  foolish  before  he  is  seen  to  be 
thrown.  Hinze  has  not  the  stuff  in  him  to  be  at  once  agree- 
ably conversational  and  sincere,  and  he  has  got  himself  up  to 
be  at  all  events  agreeably  conversational.  Notwithstanding 
this  deliberateness  of  intention  in  his  talk  he  is  unconscious  of 
falsity,  for  he  has  not  enough  of  deep  and  lasting  impression 
to  find  a  contrast  or  diversity  between  his  words  and  his 
thoughts.  He  is  not  fairly  to  be  called  a  hypocrite,  but  I 
have  already  confessed  to  the  more  exasperation  at  his  make- 
believe  reverence,  because  it  has  no  deep  hunger  to  excuse  it. 


VI. 
ONLY  TEMPER. 

WHAT  is  temper?  Its  primary  meaning,  the  proportion 
and  mode  in  which  qualities  are  mingled,  is  much  neglected  iu 
popular  speech,  yet  even  here  the  word  often  carries  a  refer- 
ence to  an  habitual  state  or  general  tendency  of  the  organism 
in  distinction  from  what  are  held  to  be  specific  virtues  and 
vices.  As  people  confess  to  bad  memory  without  expecting  to 
sink  in  mental  reputation,  so  we  hear  a  man  declared  to  have 
a  bad  temper  and  yet  glorified  as  the  possessor  of  every  high 
quality.  When  he  errs  or  in  any  way  commits  himself,  his 
temper  is  accused,  not  his  character,  and  it  is  understood  that 
but  for  a  brutal  bearish  mood  he  is  kindness  itself.  If  he 
kicks  small  animals,  swears  violently  at  a  servant  who  mis- 
takes orders,  or  is  grossly  rude  to  his  wife,  it  is  remarked 
apologetically  that  these  things  mean  nothing — they  are  all 
temper. 

Certainly  there  is  a  limit  to  this  form  of  apology,  and  the 
forgery  of  a  bill,  or  the  ordering  of  goods  without  any  pros- 
pect of  paying  for  them,  has  never  been  set  down  to  an  unfor- 
tunate habit  of  sulkiness  or  of  irascibility.  But  on  the  whole 
there  is  a  peculiar  exercise  of  indulgence  toward  the  manifes- 
tations of  bad  temper  which  tends  to  encourage  them,  so  that 
we  are  in  danger  of  having  among  us  a  number  of  virtuous 
persons  who  conduct  themselves  detestably,  just  as  we  have 
hysterical  patients  who,  with  sound  organs,  are  apparently 
laboring  under  many  sorts  of  organic  disease.  Let  it  be  ad- 
mitted, however,  that  a  man  may  be  "  a  good  fellow  "  and  yet 
have  a  bad  temper,  so  bad  that  we  recognize  his  merits  with 
reluctance,  and  are  inclined  to  resent  his  occasionally  amiable 
behavior  as  an  unfair  demand  on  our  admiration. 

Touchwood  is  that  kind  of  good  fellow.     He  is  by  turns 


60  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

insolent,  quarrelsome,  repulsively  haughty  to  innocent  people 
who  approach  him  with  respect,  neglectful  of  his  friends, 
angry  in  face  of  legitimate  demands,  procrastinating  in  the 
fulfilment  of  such  demands,  prompted  to  rude  words  and  harsh 
looks  by  a  moody  disgust  with  his  fellow-men  in  general — and 
yet,  as  everybody  will  assure  you,  the  soul  of  honor,  a  stead- 
fast friend,  a  defender  of  the  oppressed,  an  affectionate-hearted 
creature.  Pity  that,  after  a  certain  experience  of  his  moods, 
his  intimacy  becomes  insupportable!  A  man  who  uses  his 
balmorals  to  tread  on  your  toes  with  much  frequency  and  an 
unmistakable  emphasis  may  prove  a  fast  friend  in  adversity, 
but  meanwhile  your  adversity  has  not  arrived  and  your  toes 
are  tender.  The  daily  sneer  or  growl  at  your  remarks  is  not 
to  be  made  amends  for  by  a  possible  eulogy  or  defence  of  your 
undertaking  against  depreciators  who  may  not  present  them- 
selves, and  on  an  occasion  which  may  never  arise.  I  cannot 
submit  to  a  .chronic  state  of  blue  and  green  bruise  as  a  form  of 
insurance  against  an  accident. 

Touchwood's  bad  temper  is  of  the  contradicting  pugnacious 
sort.  He  is  the  honorable  gentleman  in  opposition,  whatever 
proposal  or  proposition  may  be  broached,  and  when  others 
join  him  he  secretly  damns  their  superfluous  agreement, 
quickly  discovering  that  his  way  of  stating  the  case  is  not  ex- 
actly theirs.  An  invitation  or  any  sign  of  expectation  throws 
him  into  an  attitude  of  refusal.  Ask  his  concurrence  in  a 
benevolent  measure :  he  will  not  decline  to  give  it,  because  he 
has  a  real  sympathy  with  good  aims ;  but  he  complies  resent- 
fully, though  where  he  is  let  alone  he  will  do  much  more  than 
any  one  would  have  thought  of  asking  for.  No  man  would 
shrink  with  greater  sensitiveness  from  the  imputation  of  not 
paying  his  debts,  yet  when  a  bill  is  sent  in  with  any  prompti- 
tude he  is  inclined  to  make  the  tradesman  wait  for  the  money 
he  is  in  such  a  hurry  to  get.  One  sees  that  this  antagonistic 
temper  must  be  much  relieved  by  finding  a  particular  object, 
and  that  its  worst  moments  must  be  those  where  the  mood  is 
that  of  vague  resistance,  there  being  nothing  specific  to  oppose. 
Touchwood  is  never  so  little  engaging  as  when  he  comes  down 
to  breakfast  with  a  cloud  on  his  brow,  after  parting  from  you 
the  night  before  with  an  affectionate  effusiveness  at  the  end  of 


ONLY  TEMPER.  61 

a  confidential  conversation  which  has  assured  you  of  mutual 
understanding.  Impossible  that  you  can  have  committed  any 
offence.  If  mice  have  disturbed  him,  that  is  not  your  fault ; 
but,  nevertheless,  your  cheerful  greeting  had  better  not  convey 
any  reference  to  the  weather,  else  it  will  be  met  by  a  sneer 
which,  taking  you  unawares,  may  give  you  a  crushing  sense 
that  you  make  a  poor  figure  with  your  cheerfulness,  which 
was  not  asked  for.  Some  daring  person  perhaps  introduces 
another  topic,  and  uses  the  delicate  flattery  of  appealing  to 
Touchwood  for  his  opinion,  the  topic  being  included  in  his 
favorite  studies.  An  indistinct  muttering,  with  a  look  at  the 
carving-knife  in  reply,  teaches  that  daring  person  how  ill  he 
has  chosen  a  market  for  his  deference.  If  Touchwood's  be- 
havior affects  you  very  closely  you  had  better  break  your  leg 
in  the  course  of  the  day:  his  bad  temper  will  then  vanish  at 
once;  he  will  take  a  painful  journey  on  your  behalf;  he  will 
sit  up  with  you  night  after  night ;  he  will  do  all  the  work  of 
your  department  so  as  to  save  you  from  any  loss  in  conse- 
quence of  your  accident ;  he  will  be  even  uniformly  tender  to 
you  till  you  are  well  on  your  legs  again,  when  he  will  some 
fine  morning  insult  you  without  provocation,  and  make  you 
wish  that  his  generous  goodness  to  you  had  not  closed  your 
lips  against  retort. 

It  is  not  always  necessary  that  a  friend  should  break  his 
leg,  for  Touchwood  to  feel  compunction  and  endeavor  to  make 
amends  for  his  bearishness  or  insolence.  He  becomes  spon- 
taneously conscious  that  he  has  misbehaved,  and  he  is  not 
only  ashamed  of  himself,  but  has  the  better  prompting  to  try 
and  heal  any  wound  he  has  inflicted.  Unhappily  the  habit  of 
being  offensive  "  without  meaning  it "  leads  usually  to  a  way 
of  making  amends  which  the  injured  person  cannot  but  regard 
as  a  being  amiable  without  meaning  it.  The  kindness,  the 
complimentary  indications  or  assurances,  are  apt  to  appear  in 
the  light  of  a  penance  adjusted  to  the  foregoing  lapses,  and 
by  the  very  contrast  they  offer  call  up  a  keener  memory  of  the 
wrong  they  atone  for.  They  are  not  a  spontaneous  prompt- 
ing of  good- will,  but  an  elaborate  compensation.  And,  in 
fact,  Dion's  atoning  friendliness  has  a  ring  of  artificiality.  Be- 
cause he  formerly  disguised  his  good  feeling  toward  you  he 


62  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

now  expresses  more  than  he  quite  feels.  It  is  in  vain.  Hav- 
ing made  you  extremely  uncomfortable  last  week  he  has  abso- 
lutely diminished  his  power  of  making  you  happy  to-day :  he 
struggles  against  this  result  by  excessive  effort,  but  he  has 
taught  you  to  observe  his  ntfulness  rather  than  to  be  warmed 
by  his  episodic  show  of  regard. 

I  suspect  that  many  persons  who  have  an  uncertain,  incal- 
culable temper  flatter  themselves  that  it  enhances  their  fas- 
cination ;  but  perhaps  they  are  under  the  prior  mistake  of 
exaggerating  the  charm  which  they  suppose  to  be  thus  strength- 
ened j  in  any  case  they  will  do  well  not  to  trust  in  the  attrac- 
tions of  caprice  and  moodiness  for  a  long  continuance  or  for 
close  intercourse.  A  pretty  woman  may  fan  the  flame  of  dis- 
tant adorers  by  harassing  them,  but  if  she  lets  one  of  them 
make  her  his  wife,  the  point  of  view  from  which  he  will  look 
at  her  poutings  and  tossings  and  mysterious  inability  to  be 
pleased  will  be  seriously  altered.  And  if  slavery  to  a  pretty 
woman,  which  seems  among  the  least  conditional  forms  of  ab- 
ject service,  will  not  bear  too  great  a  strain  from  her  bad  tem- 
per even  though  her  beauty  remain  the  same,  it  is  clear  that  a 
man  whose  claims  lie  in  his  high  character  or  high  perform- 
ances had  need  impress  us  very  constantly  with  his  peculiar 
value  and  indispensableness,  if  he  is  to  test  our  patience  by 
an  uncertainty  of  temper  which  leaves  us  absolutely  without 
grounds  for  guessing  how  he  will  receive  our  persons  or  hum- 
bly advanced  opinions,  or  what  line  he  will  take  on  any  but 
the  most  momentous  occasions. 

For  it  is  among  the  repulsive  effects  of  this  bad  temper, 
which  is  supposed  to  be  compatible  with  shining  virtues,  that 
it  is  apt  to  determine  a  man' s  sudden  adhesion  to  an  opinion, 
whether  on  a  personal  or  impersonal  matter,  without  leaving 
him  time  to  consider  his  grounds.  The  adhesion  is  sudden 
and  momentary,  but  it  either  forms  a  precedent  for  his  line  of 
thought  and  action,  or  it  is  presently  seen  to  have  been  incon- 
sistent with  his  true  mind.  This  determination  of  partisan- 
ship by  temper  has  its  worst  effects  in  the  career  of  the  public 
man,  who  is  always  in  danger  of  getting  so  enthralled  by  his 
own  words  that  he  looks  into  facts  and  questions  not  to  get 
rectifying  knowledge,  but  to  get  evidence  that  will  justify  his 


ONLY  TEMPER.  63 

actual  attitude  which  was  assumed  under  an  impulse  depend- 
ent on  something  else  thau  knowledge.  There  has  been  plenty 
of  insistence  on  the  evil  of  swearing  by  the  words  of  a  master, 
and  having  the  judgment  uniformly  controlled  by  a  "  He  said 
it " ;  but  a  much  worse  woe  to  befall  a  man  is  to  have  every 
judgment  controlled  by  an  "  I  said  it " — to  make  a  divinity  of 
his  own  short-sightedness  or  passion-led  aberration  and  ex- 
plain the  world  in  its  honor.  There  is  hardly  a  more  pitiable 
degradation  than  this  for  a  man  of  high  gifts.  Hence  I  can- 
not join  with  those  who  wish  that  Touchwood,  being  young 
enough  to  enter  on  public  life,  should  get  elected  for  Parlia- 
ment and  use  his  excellent  abilities  to  serve  his  country  in 
that  conspicuous  manner.  For  hitherto,  in  the  less  moment- 
ous incidents  of  private  life,  his  capricious  temper  has  only 
produced  the  minor  evil  of  inconsistency,  and  he  is  even  greatly 
at  ease  in  contradicting  himself,  provided  he  can  contradict 
you,  and  disappoint  any  smiling  expectation  you  may  have 
shown  that  the  impressions  you  are  uttering  are  likely  to 
meet  with  his  sympathy,  considering  that  the  day  before  he 
himself  gave  you  the  example  which  your  mind  is  following. 
He  is  at  least  free  from  those  fetters  of  self -justification  which 
are  the  curse  of  parliamentary  speaking,  and  what  I  rather 
desire  for  him  is  that  he  should  produce  the  great  book  which 
he  is  generally  pronounced  capable  of  writing,  and  put  his 
best  self  imperturbably  on  record  for  the  advantage  of  society ; 
because  I  should  then  have  steady  ground  for  bearing  with  his 
diurnal  incalculableness,  and  could  fix  my  gratitude  as  by  a 
strong  staple  to  that  unvarying  monumental  service.  Unhap- 
pily, Touchwood's  great  powers  have  been  only  so  far  mani- 
fested as  to  be  believed  in,  not  demonstrated.  Everybody 
rates  them  highly,  and  thinks  that  whatever  he  chose  to  do 
would  be  done  in  a  first-rate  manner.  Is  it  his  love  of  dis- 
appointing complacent  expectancy  which  has  gone  so  far  as  to 
keep  up  this  lamentable  negation,  and  made  him  resolve  not 
to  write  the  comprehensive  work  which  he  would  have  written 
if  nobody  had  expected  it  of  him? 

One  can  see  that  if  Touchwood  were  to  become  a  public  man 
and  take  to  frequent  speaking  on  platforms  or  from  his  seat 
in  the  House,  it  would  hardly  be  possible  for  him  to  maintain 


64  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

much  integrity  of  opinion,  or  to  avoid  courses  of  partisanship 
which  a  healthy  public  sentiment  would  stamp  with  discredit. 
Say  that  he  were  endowed  with  the  purest  honesty,  it  would 
inevitably  be  dragged  captive  by  this  mysterious,  Protean  bad 
temper.  There  would  be  the  fatal  public  necessity  of  justify- 
ing oratorical  Temper  which  had  got  on  its  legs  in  its  bitter 
mood  and  made  insulting  imputations,  or  of  keeping  up  some 
decent  show  of  consistency  with  opinions  .vented  out  of  Tem- 
per's contradictoriness.  And  words  would  have  to  be  followed 
up  by  acts  of  adhesion. 

Certainly  if  a  bad-tempered  man  can  be  admirably  virtuous, 
he  must  be  so  under  extreme  difficulties.  I  doubt  the  possi- 
bility that  a  high  order  of  character  can  coexist  with  a  temper 
like  Touchwood' s.  For  it  is  of  the  nature  of  such  temper  to 
interrupt  the  formation  of  healthy  mental  habits,  which  de- 
pend on  a  growing  harmony  between  perception,  conviction, 
and  impulse.  There  may  be  good  feelings,  good  deeds — for 
a  human  nature  may  pack  endless  varieties  and  blessed 
inconsistencies  in  its  windings — but  it  is  essential  to  what 
is  worthy  to  be  called  high  character,  that  it  may  be 
safely  calculated  on,  and  that  its  qualities  shall  have  taken 
the  form  of  principles  or  laws  habitually,  if  not  perfectly, 
obeyed. 

If  a  man  frequently  passes  unjust  judgments,  takes  up  false 
attitudes,  intermits  his  acts  of  kindness  with  rude  behavior  or 
cruel  words,  and  falls  into  the  consequent  vulgar  error  of  sup- 
posing that  he  can  make  amends  by  labored  agreeableness,  I 
cannot  consider  such  courses  any  the  less  ugly  because  they 
are  ascribed  to  "  temper."  Especially  I  object  to  the  assump- 
tion that  his  having  a  fundamentally  good  disposition  is  either 
an  apology  or  a  compensation  for  his  bad  behavior.  If  his 
temper  yesterday  made  him  lash  the  horses,  upset  the  curricle 
and  cause  a  breakage  of  my  rib,  I  feel  it  no  compensation  that 
to-day  he  vows  he  will  drive  me  anywhere  in  the  gentlest 
manner  any  day  as  long  as  he  lives.  Yesterday  was  what  it 
was,  my  rib  is  paining  me,  it  is  not  a  main  object  of  my  life 
to  be  driven  by  Touchwood — and  I  have  no  confidence  in  his 
lifelong  gentleness.  The  utmost  form  of  placability  I  am  capa- 
ble of  is  to  try  and  remember  his  better  deeds  already  per- 


ONLY  TEMPER.  66 

formed,  and,  mindful  of  my  own  offences,  to  bear  him  no  mal- 
ice.    But  I  cannot  accept  his  amends. 

If  the  bad-tempered  man  wants  to  apologize  he  had  need  to 
do  it  on  a  large  public  scale,  make  some  beneficent  discovery, 
produce  some  stimulating  work  of  genius,  invent  some  power- 
ful process — prove  himself  such  a  good  to  contemporary  mul- 
titudes and  future  generations,  as  to  make  the  discomfort  he 
causes  his  friends  and  acquaintances  a  vanishing  quantity,  a 
trifle  even  in  their  own  estimate. 
5 


VIL 

A  POLITICAL   MOLECULE. 

THE  most  arrant  denier  must  admit  that  a  man  often  furthers 
larger  ends  than  he  is  conscious  of,  and  that  while  he  is  trans- 
acting his  particular  affairs  with  the  narrow  pertinacity  of  a 
respectable  ant,  he  subserves  an  economy  larger  than  any  pur- 
pose of  his  own.  Society  is  happily  not  dependent  for  the 
growth  of  fellowship  on  the  small  minority  already  endowed 
with  comprehensive  sympathy:  any  molecule  of  the  body 
politic  working  toward  his  own  interest  in  an  orderly  way  gets 
his  understanding  more  or  less  penetrated  with  the  fact  that 
his  interest  is  included  in  that  of  a  large  number.  I  have 
watched  several  political  molecules  being  educated  in  this  way 
by  the  nature  of  things  into  a  faint  feeling  of  fraternity.  But 
at  this  moment  I  am  thinking  of  Spike,  an  elector  who  voted 
on  the  side  of  Progress  though  he  was  not  inwardly  attached 
to  it  under  that  name.  For  abstractions  are  deities  having 
many  specific  names,  local  habitations,  and  forms  of  activity, 
and  so  get  a  multitude  of  devout  servants  who  care  no  more 
for  them  under  their  highest  titles  than  the  celebrated  person 
who,  putting  with  forcible  brevity  a  view  of  human  motives 
now  much  insisted  on,  asked  what  Posterity  had  done  for 
him  that  he  should  care  for  Posterity?  To  many  minds  even 
among  the  ancients  (thought  by  some  to  have  been  invariably 
poetical)  the  goddess  of  wisdom  was  doubtless  worshipped 
simply  as  the  patroness  of  spinning  and  weaving.  Now  spin- 
ning and  weaving  from  a  manufacturing,  wholesale  point  of 
view,  was  the  chief  form  under  which  Spike  from  early  years 
had  unconsciously  been  a  devotee  of  Progress. 

He  was  a  political  molecule  of  the  most  gentlemanlike  ap- 
pearance, not  less  than  six  feet  high,  and  showing  the  utmost 
nicety  in  the  care  of  his  person  and  equipment.  His  umbrella 


A  POLITICAL  MOLECULE.  67 

was  especially  remarkable  for  its  neatness,  though  perhaps  he 
swung  it  unduly  in  walking.  His  complexion  was  fresh,  his 
eyes  small,  bright,  and  twinkling.  He  was  seen  to  great  ad- 
vantage in  a  hat  and  greatcoat — garments  frequently  fatal  to 
the  impressiveness  of  shorter  figures ;  but  when  he  was  uncov- 
ered in  the  drawing-room,  it  was  impossible  not  to  observe 
that  his  head  shelved  off  too  rapidly  from  the  eyebrows  toward 
the  crown,  and  that  his  length  of  limb  seemed  to  have  used 
up  his  mind  so  as  to  cause  an  air  of  abstraction  from  con- 
versational topics.  He  appeared,  indeed,  to  be  preoccupied 
with  a  sense  of  his  exquisite  cleanliness,  clapped  his  hands 
together  and  rubbed  them  frequently,  straightened  his  back, 
and  even  opened  his  mouth  and  closed  it  again  with  a  sligM 
snap,  apparently  for  no  other  purpose  than  the  confirmation  to 
himself  of  his  own  powers  in  that  line.  These  are  innocent 
exercises,  but  they  are  not  such  as  give  weight  to  a  man's  per- 
sonality. Sometimes  Spike's  mind,  emerging  from  its  pre- 
occupation, burst  forth  in  a  remark  delivered  with  smiling 
zest ;  as,  that  he  did  like  to  see  gravel  walks  well  rolled,  or 
that  a  lady  should  always  wear  the  best  jewelry,  or  that  a 
bride  was  a  most  interesting  object;  but  finding  these  ideas 
received  rather  coldly,  he  would  relapse  into  abstraction,  draw 
up  his  back,  wrinkle  his  brows  longitudinally,  and  seem  to 
regard  society,  even  including  gravel  walks,  jewelry,  and 
brides,  as  essentially  a  poor  affair.  Indeed  his  habit  of  mind 
was  desponding,  and  he  took  melancholy  views  as  to  the 
possible  extent  of  human  pleasure  and  the  value  of  existence. 
Especially  after  he  had  made  his  fortune  in  the  cotton  manu- 
facture, and  had  thus  attained  the  chief  object  of  his  ambition 
— the  object  which  had  engaged  his  talent  for  order  and  per- 
severing application.  For  his  easy  leisure  caused  him  much 
ennui.  He  was  abstemious,  and  had  none  of  those  tempta- 
tions to  sensual  excess  which  fill  up  a  man's  time  first  with 
indulgence  and  then  with  the  process  of  getting  well  from  its 
effects.  He  had  not,  indeed,  exhausted  the  sources  of  knowl- 
edge, but  here  again  his  notions  of  human  pleasure  were  nar- 
rowed by  his  want  of  appetite ;  for  though  he  seemed  rather 
surprised  at  the  consideration  that  Alfred  the  Great  was  a 
Catholic,  or  that  apart  from  the  Ten  Commandments  any  con- 


68  THEOPHRA8TUS  SUCH. 

ception  of  moral  conduct  had  occurred  to  mankind,  he  was  not 
stimulated  to  further  inquiries  on  these  remote  matters.  Yet 
he  aspired  to  what  he  regarded  as  intellectual  society,  will- 
ingly entertained  beneficed  clergymen,  and  bought  the  books 
he  heard  spoken  of,  arranging  them  carefully  on  the  shelves  of 
what  he  called  his  library,  and  occasionally  sitting  alone  in 
the  same  room  with  them.  But  some  minds  seem  well  glazed 
by  nature  against  the  admission  Of  knowledge,  and  Spike's 
was  one  of  them.  It  was  not,  however,  entirely  so  with  re- 
gard to  politics.  He  had  a  strong  opinion  about  the  Reform 
Bill,  and  saw  clearly  that  the  large  trading  towns  ought  to 
send  members.  Portraits  of  the  Reform  heroes  hung  framed 
and  glazed  in  his  library :  he  prided  himself  on  being  a  Lib- 
eral. In  this  last  particular,  as  well  as  in  not  giving  bene- 
factions and  not  making  loans  without  interest,  he  showed  un- 
questionable firmness.*  On  the  Repeal  of  the  Corn  Laws, 
again,  he  was  thoroughly  convinced.  His  mind  was  expansive 
toward  foreign  markets,  and  his  imagination  could  see  that 
the  people  from  whom  he  took  corn  might  be  able  to  take  the 
cotton  goods  which  they  had  hitherto  dispensed  with.  On 
his  conduct  in  these  political  concerns,  his  wife,  otherwise  in- 
fluential as  a  woman  who  belonged  to  a  family  with  a  title  in 
it,  and  who  had  condescended  in  marrying  him,  could  gain  no 
hold :  she  had  to  blush  a  little  at  what  was  called  her  hus- 
band's "  radicalism  " — an  epithet  which  was  a  very  unfair  im- 
peachment of  Spike,  who  never  went  to  the  root  of  anything. 
But  he  understood  his  own  trading  affairs,  and  in  this  way 
became  a  genuine,  constant  political  element.  If  he  had  been 
born  a  little  later  he  could  have  been  accepted  as  an  eligible 
member  of  Parliament,  and  if  he  had  belonged  to  a  high 
family  he  might  have  done  for  a  member  of  the  Government. 
Perhaps  his  indifference  to  "  views "  would  have  passed  for 
administrative  judiciousness,  and  he  would  have  been  so  gen- 
erally silent  that  he  must  often  have  been  silent  in  the  right 
place.  But  this  is  empty  speculation :  there  is  no  warrant  for 
saying  what  Spike  would  have  been  and  known  so  as  to  have 
made  a  calculable  political  element,  if  he  had  not  been  edu- 
cated by  having  to  manage  his  trade.  A  small  mind  trained 
to  useful  occupation  for  the  satisfying  of  private  need  be- 


A  POLITICAL  MOLECULE.  69 

oomes  a  representative  of  genuine  class  needs.  Spike  objected 
to  certain  items  of  legislation  because  they  hampered  his  own 
trade,  but  his  neighbors'  trade  was  hampered  by  the  same 
causes ;  and  though  he  would  have  been  simply  selfish  in  a 
question  of  light  or  water  between  himself  and  a  fellow-towns^ 
man,  his  need  for  a  change  in  legislation,  being  shared  by  all 
his  neighbors  in  trade,  ceased  to  be  simply  selfish,  and  raised 
him  to  a  sense  of  common  injury  and  common  benefit.  True, 
if  the  law  could  have  been  changed  for  the  benefit  of  his  par- 
ticular business,  leaving  the  cotton  trade  in  general  in  a  sorry 
condition  while  he  prospered,  Spike  might  not  have  thought 
that  result  intolerably  unjust;  but  the  nature  of  things  did 
not  allow  of  such  a  result  being  contemplated  as  possible;  it 
allowed  of  an  enlarged  market  for  Spike  only  through  the  en- 
largement of  his  neighbors'  market,  and  the  Possible  is  always 
the  ultimate  master  of  our  efforts  and  desires.  Spike  was 
obliged  to  contemplate  a  general  benefit,  and  thus  became 
public-spirited  in  spite  of  himself.  Or  rather,  the  nature  of 
things  transmuted  his  active  egoism  into  a  demand  for  a  pub- 
lic benefit. 

Certainly  if  Spike  had  been  born  a  marquis  he  could  not 
have  had  the  same  chance  of  being  useful  as  a  political  ele- 
ment. But  he  might  have  had  the  same  appearance,  have 
been  equally  null  in  conversation,  sceptical  as  to  the  reality  of 
pleasure,  and  destitute  of  historical  knowledge;  perhaps  even 
dimly  disliking  Jesuitism  as  a  quality  in  Catholic  minds,  or 
regarding  Bacon  as  the  inventor  of  physical  science.  The 
depth  of  middle-aged  gentlemen's  ignorance  will  never  be 
known,  for  want  of  public  examinations  in  this  branch. 


VIII. 
THE   WATCH-DOG   OF   KNOWLEDGE. 

MOKDAX  is  an  admirable  man,  ardent  in  intellectual  work, 
public-spirited,  affectionate,  and  able  to  find  the  right  words 
in  conveying  ingenious  ideas  or  elevated  feeling.  Pity  that 
to  all  these  graces  he  cannot  add  what  would  give  them  the 
utmost  finish — the  occasional  admission  that  he  has  been  in 
the  wrong,  the  ocasional  frank  welcome  of  a  new  idea  as  some- 
thing not  before  present  to  his  mind !  But  no :  Mordax's  self- 
respect  seems  to  be  of  that  fiery  quality  which  demands  that 
none  but  the  monarchs  of  thought  shall  have  an  advantage 
over  him,  and  in  the  presence  of  contradiction  or  the  threat  of 
having  his  notions  corrected,  he  becomes  astonishingly  un- 
scrupulous and  cruel  for  so  kindly  and  conscientious  a  man. 

"  You  are  fond  of  attributing  those  fine  qualities  to  Mordax, " 
said  Acer,  the  other  day,  "  but  I  have  not  much  belief  in  vir- 
tues that  are  always  requiring  to  be  asserted  in  spite  of  ap- 
pearances against  them.  True  fairness  and  good  will  show 
themselves  precisely  where  his  are  conspicuously  absent.  I 
mean,  in  recognizing  claims  which  the  rest  of  the  world  are 
not  likely  to  stand  up  for.  It  does  not  need  much  love  of 
truth  and  justice  in  me  to  say  that  Aldebaran  is  a  bright  star, 
or  Isaac  Newton  the  greatest  of  discoverers ;  nor  much  kindli- 
ness in  me  to  want  my  notes  to  be  heard  above  the  rest  in  a 
chorus  of  hallelujahs  to  one  already  crowned.  It  is  my  way 
to  apply  tests.  Does  the  man  who  has  the  ear  of  the  public 
use  his  advantage  tenderly  toward  poor  fellows  who  may  be 
hindered  of  their  due  if  he  treats  their  pretensions  with  scorn? 
That  is  my  test  of  his  justice  and  benevolence. " 

My  answer  was,  that  his  system  of  moral  tests  might  be  as 
delusive  as  what  ignorant  people  take  to  be  tests  of  intellect 
and  learning.  If  the  scholar  or  savant  cannot  answer 


THE  WATCH-DOG  OF  KNOWLEDGE.  71 

haphazard  questions  on  the  shortest  notice,  their  belief  in  his 
capacity  is  shaken.  But  the  better  informed  have  given  up 
the  Johnsonian  theory  of  inind  as  a  pair  of  legs  able  to  walk 
east  or  west  according  to  choice.  Intellect  is  no  longer  taken 
to  be  a  ready-made  dose  of  ability  to  attain  eminence  (or 
mediocrity)  in  all  departments ;  it  is  even  admitted  that  ap- 
plication in  one  line  of  study  or  practice  has  often  a  laming 
effect  in  other  directions,  and  that  an  intellectual  quality  or 
special  facility  which  is  a  furtherance  ill  one  medium  of  effort 
is  a  drag  in  another.  We  have  convinced  ourselves  by  this  time 
that  a  man  may  be  a  sage  in  celestial  physics  and  a  poor  crea- 
ture in  the  purchase  of  seed-corn,  or  even  in  theorizing  about 
the  affections ;  that  he  may  be  a  mere  fumbler  in  physiology 
and  yet  show  a  keen  insight  into  human  motives;  that  he  may 
seem  the  "  poor  Poll "  of  the  company  in  conversation  and  yet 
write  with  some  humorous  vigor.  It  is  not  true  that  a  man's 
intellectual  power  is  like  the  strength  of  a  timber  beam,  to  be 
measured  by  its  weakest  point. 

Why  should  we  any  more  apply  that  fallacious  standard  of 
what  is  called  consistency  to  a  man's  moral  nature,  and  argue 
against  the  existence  of  fine  impulses  or  hr-.bits  of  feeling  in 
relation  to  his  actions  generally,  because  those  better  move- 
ments are  absent  in  a  class  of  cases  which  act  peculiarly  on  an 
irritable  form  of  his  egoism?  The  mistake  might  be  corrected 
by  our  taking  notice  that  the  ungenerous  words  or  acts  which 
seem  to  us  the  most  utterly  incompatible  with  good  disposi- 
tions in  the  offender,  are  those  which  offend  ourselves.  All 
other  persons  are  able  to  draw  a  milder  conclusion.  Laniger, 
who  has  a  temper  but  no  talent  for  repartee,  having  been  run 
down  in  a  fierce  way  by  Mordax,  is  inwardly  persuaded  that 
the  highly  lauded  man  is  a  wolf  at  heart :  he  is  much  tried  by 
perceiving  that  his  own  friends  seem  to  think  no  worse  of  the 
reckless  assailant  than  they  did  before ;  and  Corvus,  who  has 
lately  been,  flattered  by  some  kindness  from  Mordax,  is  un- 
mindful enough  of  Laniger 's  feeling  to  dwell  on  this  instance 
of  good-nature  with  admiring  gratitude.  There  is  a  fable  that 
when  the  badger  had  been  stung  all  over  by  bees,  a  bear  con- 
soled him  by  a  rhapsodic  account  of  how  he  himself  had  just 
breakfasted  on  their  honey.  The  badger  replied,  peevishly, 


72  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

"  The  stings  are  in  my  flesh,  and  the  sweetness  is  on  your 
muzzle."  The  bear,  it  is  said,  was  surprised  at  the  badger's 
want  of  altruism. 

But  this  difference  of  sensibility  between  Laniger  and  his 
friends  only  mirrors  in  a  faint  way  the  difference  between  his 
own  point  of  view  and  that  of  the  man  who  has  injured  him. 
If  those  neutral,  perhaps  even  affectionate  persons,  form  no 
lively  conception  of  what  Laniger  suffers,  how  should  Mordax 
have  any  such  sympathetic  imagination  to  check  him  in  what 
he  persuades  himself  is  a  scourging  administered  by  the  quali- 
fied man  to  the  unqualified?  Depend  upon  it,  his  conscience, 
though  active  enough  in  some  relations,  has  never  given  him 
a  twinge  because  of  his  polemical  rudeness  and  even  brutality. 
He  would  go  from  the  room  where  he  has  been  tiring  himself 
through  the  watches  of  the  night  in  lifting  and  turning  a  sick 
friend,  and  straightway  write  a  reply  or  rejoinder  in  which 
he  mercilessly  pilloried  a  Laniger  who  had  supposed  that  he 
could  tell  the  world  something  else  or  more  than  had  been 
sanctioned  by  the  eminent  Mordax — and  what  was  worse,  had 
sometimes  really  done  so.  Does  this  nullify  the  genuineness 
of  motive  which  made  him  tender  to  his  suffering  friend? 
Not  at  all.  It  only  proves  that  his  arrogant  egoism,  set  on 
fire,  sends  up  smoke  and  flame  where  just  before  there  had 
been  the  dews  of  fellowship  and  pity.  He  is  angry  and  equips 
himself  accordingly — with  a  penknife  to  give  the  offender  a 
comprachico  countenance,  a  mirror  to  show  him  the  effect,  and 
a  pair  of  nailed  boots  to  give  him  his  dismissal.  All  this  to 
teach  him  who  the  Eomans  really  were,  and  to  purge  inquiry 
of  incompetent  intrusion,  so  rendering  an  important  service  to 
mankind. 

When  a  man  is  in  a  rage  and  wants  to  hurt  another  in  con- 
sequence, he  can  always  regard  himself  as  the  civil  arm  of  a 
spiritual  power,  and  all  the  more  easily  because  there  is  real 
need  to  assert  the  righteous  efficacy  of  indignation.  I  for  my 
part  feel  with  the  Lanigers,  and  should  object  all  the  more  to 
their  or  my  being  lacerated  and  dressed  with  salt,  if  the  ad- 
ministrator of  such  torture  alleged  as  a  motive  his  care  for 
Truth  and  posterity,  and  got  himself  pictured  with  a  halo  in 
consequence.  In  transactions  between  fellow-men  it  is  well 


THE  WATCH  DOG  OF  -KNOWLEDGE.  73 

to  consider  a  little,  in  the  first  place,  what  is  fair  and  kind 
toward  the  person  immediately  concerned,  before  we  spit  and 
roast  him  on  behalf  of  the  next  century  but  one.  Wide- 
reaching  motives,  blessed  and  glorious  as  they  are,  and  of  the 
highest  sacramental  virtue,  have  their  dangers,  like  all  else 
that  touches  the  mixed  life  of  the  earth.  They  are  archangels 
with  awful  brow  and  flaming  sword,  summoning  and  encourag- 
ing us  to  do  the  right  and  the  divinely  heroic,  and  we  feel  a 
beneficent  tremor  in  their  presence;  but  to  learn  what  it  is 
they  thus  summon  us  to  do,  we  have  to  consider  the  mortals 
we  are  elbowing,  who  are  of  our  own  stature  and  our  own  ap- 
petites. I  cannot  feel  sure  how  my  voting  will  affect  the  con- 
dition of  Central  Asia  in  the  coming  ages,  but  I  have  good 
reason  to  believe  that  the  future  populations  there  will  be 
none  the  worse  off  because  I  abstain  from  conjectural  vilifica- 
tion of  my  opponents  during  the  present  parliamentary  session, 
and  I  am  very  sure  that  I  shall  be  less  injurious  to  my  con- 
temporaries. On  the  whole,  and  in  the  vast  majority  of  in- 
stances, the  action  by  which  we  can  do  the  best  for  future 
ages  is  of  the  sort  which  has  a  certain  beneficence  and  grace 
for  contemporaries.  A  sour  father  may  reform  prisons,  but 
considered  in  his  sourness  he  does  harm.  The  deed  of  Judas 
has  been  attributed  to  far-reaching  views,  and  the  wish  to 
hasten  his  Master's  declaration  of  himself  as  the  Messiah. 
Perhaps — I  will  not  maintain  the  contrary — Judas  represented 
his  motive  in  this  way,  and  felt  justified  in  his  traitorous  kiss; 
but  my  belief  that  he  deserved,  metaphorically  speaking,  to 
be  where  Dante  saw  him,  at  the  bottom  of  the  Malebolge, 
would  not  be  the  less  strong  because  he  was  not  convinced  that 
his  action  was  detestable.  I  refuse  to  accept  a  man  who  has 
the  stomach  for  such  treachery,  as  a  hero  impatient  for  the  re- 
demption of  mankind  and  for  the  beginning  of  a  reign  when 
the  kisses  shall  be  those  of  peace  and  righteousness. 

All  this  is  by  the  way,  to  show  that  my  apology  for  Mordax 
was  not  founded  on  his  persuasion  of  superiority  in  his  own 
motives,  but  on  the  compatibility  of  unfair,  equivocal,  and 
even  cruel  actions  with  a  nature  which,  apart  from  special 
temptations,  is  kindly  and  generous ;  and  also  to  enforce  the 
need  of  checks  from  a  fellow-feeling  with  those  whom  our 


74  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

acts  immediately  (not  distantly)  concern.  Will  any  one  be  so 
hardy  as  to  maintain  that  an  otherwise  worthy  man  cannot  be 
vain  and  arrogant?  I  think  most  of  us  have  some  interest  in 
arguing  the  contrary.  And  it  is  of  the  nature  of  vanity  and 
arrogance,  if  unchecked,  to  become  cruel  and  self-justifying. 
There  are  fierce  beasts  within :  chain  them,  chain  them,  and 
let  them  learn  to  cower  before  the  creature  with  wider  reason. 
This  is  what  one  wishes  for  Mordax — that  his  heart  and  brain 
should  restrain  the  outleap  of  roar  and  talons. 

As  to  his  unwillingness  to  admit  that  an  idea  which  he  has 
not  discovered  is  novel  to  him,  one  is  surprised  that  quick  in- 
tellect and  shrewd  observation  do  not  early  gather  reasons  for 
being  ashamed  of  a  mental  trick  which  makes  one  among  the 
comic  parts  of  that  various  actor  Conceited  Ignorance. 

I  have  a  sort  of  valet  and  factotum,  an  excellent,  respect- 
able servant,  whose  spelling  is  so  unvitiated  by  non-phonetic 
superfluities  that  he  writes  night  as  nit.  One  day,  looking 
over  his  accounts,  I  said  to  him  jocosely,  "You  are  in  the 
latest  fashion  with  your  spelling,  Pummel :  most  people  spell 
'  night '  with  a  gh  between  the  i  and  the  t,  but  the  greatest 
scholars  now  spell  it  as  you  do. " — "  So  I  suppose,  sir, "  says 
Pummel;  "I've  see  it  with  a  gh,  but  I've  noways  give  into 
that  myself." 

You  would  never  catch  Pummel  in  an  interjection  of  surprise. 
I  have  sometimes  laid  traps  for  his  astonishment,  but  he  has 
escaped  them  all,  either  by  a  respectful  neutrality,  as  of  one 
who  would  not  appear  to  notice  that  his  master  had  been  tak- 
ing too  much  wine,  or  else  by  that  strong  persuasion  of  his 
all-knowingness  which  makes  it  simply  impossible  for  him  to 
feel  himself  newly  informed.  If  I  tell  him  that  the  world  is 
spinning  round  and  along  like  a  top,  and  that  he  is  spinning 
with  it,  he  says,  "Yes,  I've  heard  a  deal  of  that  in  my  time, 
sir,"  and  lifts  the  horizontal  lines  of  his  brow  a  little  higher, 
balancing  his  head  from  side  to  side  as  if  it  were  too  painfully 
full.  Whether  I  tell  him  that  they  cook  puppies  in  China, 
that  there  are  ducks  with  fur  coats  in  Australia,  or  that  in 
some  parts  of  the  world  it  is  the  pink  of  politeness  to  put  your 
tongue  out  on  introduction  to  a  respectable  stranger,  Pummel 
replies,  "So  I  suppose,  sir,"  with  an  air  of  resignation  to 


THE  WA.TCH  DOG  OP  KNOWLEDGE.  75 

hearing  my  poor  version  of  well-known  things,  such  as  elders 
use  in  listening  to  lively  boys  lately  presented  with  an  anec- 
dote book.  His  utmost  concession  is,  that  what  you  state  is 
what  he  would  have  replied  if  you  had  given  him  carte  blanche 
instead  of  your  needless  instruction,  and  in  this  sense  his  fa- 
vorite answer  is,  "I  should  say." 

"Pummel,"  I  observed,  a  little  irritated  at  not  getting  my 
coffee,  "  if  you  were  to  carry  your  kettle  and  spirits  of  wine 
up  a  mountain  of  a  morning,  your  water  would  boil  there 
sooner." — "  I  should  say,  sir.-" — "  Or,  there  are  boiling  springs 
in  Iceland.  Better  go  to  Iceland. " — "  That' s  what  I'  ve  been 
thinking,  sir." 

I  have  taken  to  asking  him  hard  questions,  and  as  I  ex- 
pected, he  never  admits  his  own  inability  to  answer  them 
without  representing  it  as  common  to  the  human  race.  "  What 
is  the  cause  of  the  tides,  Pummel?" — "Well,  sir,  nobody 
rightly  knows.  Many  gives  their  opinion,  but  if  I  was  to 
give  mine,  it  'ud  be  different." 

But  while  he  is  never  surprised  himself,  he  is  constantly 
imagining  situations  of  surprise  for  others.  His  own  con- 
sciousness is  that  of  one  so  thoroughly  soaked  in  knowledge 
that  further  absorption  is  impossible,  but  his  neighbors  ap- 
pear to  him  to  be  in  the  state  of  thirsty  sponges  which  it  is  a 
charity  to  besprinkle.  His  great  interest  in  thinking  of  for- 
eigners is  that  they  must  be  surprised  at  what  they  see  in 
England,  and  especially  at  the  beef.  He  is  often  occupied 
with  the  surprise  Adam  must  have  felt  at  the  sight  of  the 
assembled  animals — "  for  he  was  not  like  us,  sir,  used  from  a 
b'y  to  Wombwell's  shows."  He  is  fond  of  discoursing  to  the 
lad  who  acts  as  shoeblack  and  general  subaltern,  and  I  have 
overheard  him  saying  to  that  small  upstart,  with  some  sever- 
ity, "  Now  don't  you  pretend  to  know,  because  the  more  you 
pretend  the  more  I  see  your  ignirance  " — a  lucidity  on  his  part 
which  has  confirmed  my  impression  that  the  thoroughly  self- 
satisfied  person  is  the  only  one  fully  to  appreciate  the  charm 
of  humility  in  others. 

Your  diffident  self-suspecting  mortal  is  not  very  angry  that 
others  should  feel  more  comfortable  about  themselves,  pro- 
vided they  are  not  otherwise  offensive :  he  is  rather  like  the 


76    •  THEOPHRASTU8  SUCH. 

chilly  person,  glad  to  sit  next  a  warmer  neighbor ;  or  the 
timid,  glad  to  have  a  courageous  fellow-traveller.  It  cheers 
him  to  observe  the  store  of  small  comforts  that  his  fellow-crea- 
tures may  find  in  their  self-complacency,  just  as  one  is  pleased 
to  see  poor  old  souls  soothed  by  the  tobacco  and  snuff  for 
which  one  has  neither  nose  nor  stomach  one's  self. 

But  your  arrogant  man  will  not  tolerate  a  presumption 
which  he  sees  to  be  ill-founded.  The  service  he  regards  so- 
ciety as  most  in  need  of  is  to  put  down  the  conceit  which  is  so 
particularly  rife  around  him  that  he  is  inclined  to  believe  it 
the  growing  characteristic  of  the  present  age.  In  the  schools 
of  Magna  Grsecia,  or  in  the  sixth  century  of  our  era,  or  even 
under  Kublai  Khan,  he  finds  a  comparative  freedom  from  that 
presumption  by  which  his  contemporaries  are  stirring  his  able 
gall.  The  way  people  will  now  flaunt  notions  which  are  not 
his  without  appearing  to  mind  that  they  are  not  his,  strikes 
him  as  especially  disgusting.  Jt  might  seem  surprising  to  us 
that  one  strongly  convinced  of  his  own  value  should  prefer  to 
exalt  an  age  in  which  he  did  not  flourish,  if  it  were  not  for 
the  reflection  that  the  present  age  is  the  only  one  in  which 
anybody  has  appeared  to  undervalue  him. 


IX. 

A   HALF-BREED. 

AN  early  deep-seated  love  to  which  we  become  faithless  has 
its  unfailing  Nemesis,  if  only  in  that  division  of  soul  which 
narrows  all  newer  joys  by  the  intrusion  of  regret  and  the  es- 
tablished presentiment  of  change.  I  refer  not  merely  to  the 
love  of  a  person,  but  to  the  love  of  ideas,  practical  beliefs,  and 
social  habits.  And  faithlessness  here  means  not  a  gradual 
conversion  dependent  on  enlarged  knowledge,  but  a  yielding 
to  seductive  circumstance ;  not  a  conviction  that  the  original 
choice  was  a  mistake,  but  a  subjection  to  incidents  that  flatter 
a  growing  desire.  In  this  sort  of  love  it  is  the  forsaker  who 
has  the  melancholy  lot ;  for  an  abandoned  belief  may  be  more 
effectively  vengeful  than  Dido.  The  child  of  a  wandering 
tribe  caught  young  and  trained  to  polite  life,  if  he  feels  an 
hereditary  yearning  can  run  away  to  the  old  wilds  and  get  his 
nature  into  tune.  But  there  is  no  such  recovery  possible  to 
the  man  who  remembers  what  he  once  believed  without  being 
convinced  that  he  was  in  error,  who  feels  within  him  unsatis- 
fied stirrings  toward  old  beloved  habits  and  intimacies  from 
which  he  has  far  receded  without  conscious  justification  or 
unwavering  sense  of  superior  attractiveness  in  the  new.  This 
involuntary  renegade  has  his  character  hopelessly  jangled  and 
out  of  tune.  He  is  like  an  organ  with  its  stops  in  the  lawless 
condition  of  obtruding  themselves  without  method,  so  that 
hearers  are  amazed  by  the  most  unexpected  transitions — the 
trumpet  breaking  in  on  the  flute,  and  the  oboe  confounding 
both. 

Hence  the  lot  of  Mixtus  affects  me  pathetically,  notwith- 
standing that  he  spends  his  growing  wealth  with  liberality  and 
manifest  enjoyment.  To  most  observers  he  appears  to  be 
simply  one  of  the  fortunate  and  also  sharp  commercial  men 


78  THEOPHRA8TUS  SUCH. 

•who  began  with  meaning  to  be  rich  and  have  become  what 
they  meant  to  be :  a  man  never  taken  to  be  well-born,  but  sur- 
prisingly better  informed  than  the  well-born  usually  are,  and 
distinguished  among  ordinary  commercial  magnates  by  a  per- 
sonal kindness  which  prompts  him  not  only  to  help  the-suffer- 
ing  in  a  material  way  through  his  wealth,  but  also  by  direct 
ministration  of  his  own;  yet  with  all  this,  diffusing,  as  it 
were,  the  odor  of  a  man  delightedly  conscious  of  his  wealth 
as  an  equivalent  for  the  other  social  distinctions  of  rank  and 
intellect  which  he  can  thus  admire  without  envying.  Hardly 
one  among  those  superficial  observers  can  suspect  that  he  aims 
or  has  ever  aimed  at  being  a  writer ;  still  less  can  they  imagine 
that  his  mind  is  often  moved  by  strong  currents  of  regret 
and  of  the  most  unworldly  sympathies  from  the  memories  of  a 
youthful  time  when  his  chosen  associates  were  men  and  wom- 
en whose  only  distinction  was  a  religious,  a  philanthropic,  or 
an  intellectual  enthusiasm,  when  the  lady  on  whose  words  his 
attention  most  hung  was  a  writer  of  minor  religious  literature, 
when  he  was  a  visitor  and  exhorter  of  the  poor  in  the  alleys 
of  a  great  provincial  town,  and  when  he  attended  the  lectures 
given  specially  to  young  men  by  Mr.  Apollos,  the  eloquent 
Congregational  preacher,  who  had  studied  in  Germany  and 
had  liberal  advanced  views  then  far  beyond  the  ordinary  teach- 
ing of  his  sect.  At  that  time  Mixtus  thought  himself  a  young 
man  of  socially  reforming  ideas,  of  religious  principles  and 
religious  yearnings.  It  was  within  his  prospects  also  to  be 
rich,  bu  the  looked  forward  to  a  use  of  his  riches  chiefty  for 
reforming  and  religious  purposes.  His  opinions  were  of  a 
strongly  democratic  stamp,  except  that  even  then,  belonging 
to  the  class  of  employers,  he  was  opposed  to  all  demands  in 
the  employed  that  would  restrict  the  expansiveness  of  trade. 
He  was  the  most  democratic  in  relation  to  the  unreasonable 
privileges  of  the  aristocracy  and  landed  interest ;  and  he  had 
also  a  religious  sense  of  brotherhood  with  the  poor.  Alto- 
gether, he  was  a  sincerely  benevolent  young  man,  interested 
in  ideas,  and  renouncing  personal  ease  for  the  sake  of  study, 
religious  communion,  and  good  works.  If  you  had  known 
him  then  you  would  have  expected  him  to  marry  a  highly 
serious  and  perhaps  literary  woman,  sharing  his  benevolent 


A  HALF-BREED.  79 

and  religious  habits,  and  likely  to  encourage  his  studies — a 
woman  who  along  with  himself  would  play  a  distinguished 
part  in  one  of  the  most  enlightened  religious  circles  of  a  great 
provincial  capital. 

How  is  it  that  Mixtus  finds  himself  in  a  London  mansion, 
and  in  society  totally  unlike  that  which  made  the  ideal  of  his 
younger  years?  And  whom  did  he  marry? 

Why,  he  married  Scii.tilla,  who  fascinated  him  as  she  had 
fascinated  others,  by  her  prettiness,  her  liveliness,  and  her 
music.  It  is  a  common  enough  case — that  of  a  man  being 
suddenly  captivated  by  a  woman  nearly  the  opposite  of  his 
ideal ;  or  if  not  wholly  captivated,  at  least  effectively  captured 
by  a  combination  of  circumstances  along  with  an  unwarily 
manifested  inclination  which  might  otherwise  have  been 
transient.  Mixtus  was  captivated  and  then  captured  on  the 
worldly  side  of  his  disposition,  which  had  been  always  grow- 
ing and  flourishing  side  by  side  with  his  philanthropic  and  re- 
ligious tastes.  He  had  ability  in  business,  and  he  had  early 
meant  to  be  rich;  also,  he  was  getting  rich,  and*the  taste  for 
such  success  was  naturally  growing  with  the  pleasure  of  re- 
warded exertion.  It  was  during  a  business  sojourn  in  London 
that  he  met  Scintilla,  who,  though  without  fortune,  associated 
with  families  of  Greek  merchants  living  in  a  style  of  splen- 
dor, and  with  artists  patronized  by  such  wealthy  entertainers. 
Mixtus  on  this  occasion  became  familiar  with  a  world  in  which 
wealth  seemed  the  key  to  a  more  brilliant  sort  of  dominance 
than  that  of  a  religious  patron  in  the  provincial  circles  of  X. 
Would  it  not  be  possible  to  unite  the  two  kinds  of  sway?  A 
man  bent  on  the  most  useful  ends  might,  with  a  fortune  large 
enough,  make  morality  magnificent,  and  recommend  religious 
principle  by  showing  it  in  combination  with  the  best  kind  of 
house  and  the  most  liberal  of  tables ;  also  with  a  wife  whose 
graces,  wit,  and  accomplishments  gave  a  finish — sometimes 
lacking  even  to  establishments  got  up  with  that  unhesitating 
worldliness  to  which  high  cost  is  a  sufficient  reason.  Enough. 

Mixtus  married  Scintilla.  Now  this  lively  lady  knew  noth- 
ing of  Nonconformists,  except  that  they  were  unfashionable : 
she  did  not  distinguish  one  conventicle  from  another,  and  Mr. 
Apollos  with  his  enlightened  interpretations  seemed  to  her 


80  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

as  heavy  a  bore,  if  not  quite  so  ridiculous,  as  Mr.  Johns  could 
have  been  with  his  solemn  twang  at  the  Baptist  chapel  in  the 
lowest  suburbs,  or  as  a  local  preacher  among  the  Methodists. 
In  general,  people  who  appeared  seriously  to  believe  in  any 
sort  of  doctrine,  whether  religious,  social,  or  philosophical, 
seemed  rather  absurd  to  Scintilla.  Ten  to  one  these  theoretic 
people  pronounced  oddly,  had  some  reason  or  other  for  saying 
that  the  most  agreeable  things  were  wrong,  wore  objectionable 
clothes,  and  wanted  you  to  subscribe  to  something.  They 
were  probably  ignorant  of  art  and  music,  did  not  understand 
badinage,  and,  in  fact,  could  talk  of  nothing  amusing.  In 
Scintilla's  eyes  the  majority  of  persons  were  ridiculous  and  de- 
plorably wanting  in  that  keen  perception  of  what  was  good 
taste,  with  which  she  herself  was  blessed  by  nature  and  edu- 
cation ;  but  the  people  understood  to  be  religious  or  otherwise 
theoretic,  were  the  most  ridiculous  of  all,  without  being  pro- 
portionately amusing  and  invitable. 

Did  Mixtus  not  discover  this  view  of  Scintilla's  before  their 
marriage?  Or  did  he  allow  her  to  remain  in  ignorance  of 
habits  and  opinions  which  had  made  half  the  occupation  of 
his  youth? 

When  a  man  is  inclined  to  marry  a  particular  woman,  and 
had  made  any  committal  of  himself,  this  woman's  opinions, 
however  different  from  his  own,  are  readily  regarded  as  part 
of  her  pretty  ways,  especially  if  they  are  merely  negative ;  as, 
for  example,  that  she  does  not  insist  on  the  Trinity  or  on  the 
rightfulness  or  expediency  of  church  rates,  but  simply  regards 
her  lover's  troubling  himself  in  disputation  on  these  heads  as 
stuff  and  nonsense.  The  man  feels  his  own  superior  strength, 
and  is  sure  that  marriage  will  make  no  difference  to  him  on 
the  subjects  about  which  he  is  in  earnest.  And  to  laugh  at 
men's  affairs  is  a  woman's  privilege,  tending  to  enliven  the 
domestic  hearth.  If  Scintilla  had  no  liking  for  the  best  sort 
of  nonconformity,  she  was  without  any  troublesome  bias  tow- 
ard Episcopacy,  Anglicanism,  and  early  sacraments,  and  was 
quite  contented  not  to  go  to  church. 

As  to  Scintilla's  acquaintance  with  her  lover's  tastes  on 
these  subjects,  she  was  equally  convinced  on  her  side  that  a 
husband's  queer  ways  while  he  was  a  bachelor  would  be  easily 


A  HALF-BREED.  81 

laughed  out  of  him  when  he  had  married  an  adroit  woman. 
Mixtus,  she  felt,  was  an  excellent  creature,  quite  likable,  who 
was  getting  rich ;  and  Scintilla  meant  to  have  all  the  advan- 
tages of  a  rich  man's  wife.  She  was  not  in  the  least  a  wicked 
woman ;  she  was  simply  a  pretty  animal  of  the  ape  kind,  with 
an  aptitude  for  certain  accomplishments  which  education  had 
made  the  most  of. 

But  we  have  seen  what  has  been  the  result  to  poor  Mixtus. 
He  has  become  richer  even  than  he  dreamed  of  being,  has 
a  little  palace  in  London,  and  entertains  with  splendor  the 
half-aristocratic,  professional,  and  artistic  society  which  he  is 
proud  to  think  select.  This  society  regards  him  as  a  clever 
fellow  in  his  particular  branch,  seeing  that  he  has  become  a 
considerable  capitalist,  and  as  a  man  desirable  to  have  on  the 
list  of  one's  acquaintances.  But  from  every  other  point  of 
view  Mixtus  finds  himself  personally  submerged:  what  he 
happens  to  think  is  not  felt  by  his  esteemed  guests  to  be  of 
any  consequence,  and  what  he  used  to  think  with  the  ardor  of 
conviction  he  now  hardly  ever  expresses.  He  is  transplanted, 
and  the  sap  within  him  has  long  been  diverted  into  other  than 
the  old  lines  of  vigorous  growth.  How  could  he  speak  to  the 
artist  Crespi  or  to  Sir  Hong  Kong  Bantam  about  the  enlarged 
doctrine  of  Mr.  Apollos?  How  could  he  mention  to  them  his 
former  efforts  toward  evangelizing  the  inhabitants  of  the  X. 
alleys?  And  his  references  to  his  historical  and  geographical 
studies  toward  a  survey  of  possible  markets  for  English  prod- 
ucts are  received  with  an  air  of  ironical  suspicion  by  many  of 
his  political  friends,  who  take  his  pretension  to  give  advice 
concerning  the  Amazon,  the  Euphrates,  and  the  Niger  as 
equivalent  to  the  currier's  wide  views  on  the  applicability  of 
leather.  He  can  only  make  a  figure  through  his  genial  hospi- 
tality. It  is  in  vain  that  he  buys  the  best  pictures  and  statues 
of  the  best  artists.  Nobody  will  call  him  a  judge  in  art.  If 
his  pictures  and  statues  are  well  chosen  it  is  generally  thought 
that  Scintilla  told  him  what  to  buy ;  and  yet  Scintilla  in  other 
connections  is  spoken  of  as  having  only  a  superficial  and  often 
questionable  taste.  Mixtus,  it  is  decided,  is  a  good  fellow, 
not  ignorant — no,  really  having  a  good  deal  of  knowledge  as 
well  as  sense,  but  not  easy  to  classify  otherwise  than  as  a  rich 


82  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

man.  He  has  consequently  become  a  little  uncertain  as  to  his 
own  point  of  view,  and  in  his  most  unreserved  moments  of 
friendly  intercourse,  even  when  speaking  to  listeners  whom  he 
thinks  likely  to  sympathize  with  the  earlier  part  of  his  career, 
he  presents  himself  in  all  his  various  aspects  and  feels  himself 
in  turn  what  he  has  been,  what  he  is,  and  what  others  take 
him  to  be  (for  this  last  status  is  what  we  must  all  more  or  less 
accept).  He  will  recover  with  some  glow  of  enthusiasm  the 
vision  of  his  old  associates,  the  particular  limit  he  was  once 
accustomed  to  trace  of  freedom  in  religious  speculation,  and 
his  old  ideal  of  a  worthy  life;  but  he  will  presently  pass  to 
the  argument  that  money  is  the  only  means  by  which  you  can 
get  what  is  best  worth  having  in  the  world,  and  will  arrive  at 
the  exclamation  "  Give  me  money !  "  with  the  tone  and  gesture 
of  a  man  who  both  feels  and  knows.  Then  if  one  of  his  audi- 
ence, not  having  money,  remarks  that  a  man  may  have  made 
up  his  mind  to  do  without  money  because  he  prefers  something 
else,  Mixtus  is  with  him  immediately,  cordially  concurring  in 
the  supreme  value  of  mind  and  genius,  which  indeed  make  his 
own  chief  delight,  in  that  he  is  able  to  entertain  the  admirable 
possessors  of  these  attributes  at  his  own  table,  though  not 
himself  reckoned  among  them.  Yet,  he  will  proceed  to  ob- 
serve, there  was  a  time  when  he  sacrificed  his  sleep  to  study, 
and  even  now  amid  the  press  of  business  he  from  time  to  time 
thinks  of  taking  up  the  manuscripts  which  he  hopes  some  day 
to  complete,  and  is  always  increasing  his  collection  of  valuable 
works  bearing  on  his  favorite  topics.  And  it  is  true  that  he 
has  read  much  in  certain  directions,  and  can  remember  what 
he  has  read ;  he  knows  .the  history  and  theories  of  coloniza- 
tion and  the  social  condition  of  countries  that  do  not  at  present 
consume  a  sufficiently  large  share  of  our  products  and  manu- 
factures. He  continues  his  early  habit  of  regarding  the  spread 
of  Christianity  as  a  great  result  of  our  commercial  intercourse 
•with  black,  brown,  and  yellow  populations ;  but  this  is  an  idea 
not  spoken  of  in  the  sort  of  fashionable  society  that  Scintilla 
collects  round  her  husband's  table,  and  Mixtus  now  philosophi- 
cally reflects  that  the  cause  must  come  before  the  effect,  and 
that  the  thing  to  be  directly  striven  for  is  the  commercial  in- 
tercourse, not  excluding  a  little  war  if  that  also  should  prove 


A  HALF  BREED.  83 

needful  as  a  pioneer  of  Christianity.  He  has  long  been  wont 
to  feel  bashful  about  his  former  religion ;  as  if  it  were  an  old 
attachment  having  consequences  which  he  did  not  abandon  but 
kept  in  decent  privacy,  his  avowed  objects  and  actual  position 
being  incompatible  with  their  public  acknowledgment. 

There  is  the  same  kind  of  fluctuation  in  his  aspect  toward 
social  questions  and  duties.  He  has  not  lost  the  kindness  that 
used  to  make  him  a  benefactor  and  succorer  of  the  needy,  and 
he  is  still  liberal  in  helping  forward  the  clever  and  industrious ; 
but  in  his  active  superintendence  of  commercial  undertakings 
he  has  contracted  more  and  more  of  the  bitterness  which  capi- 
talists and  employers  often  feel  to  be  a  reasonable  mood  toward 
obstructive  proletaries.  Hence  many  who  have  occasionally 
met  him  when  trade  questions  were  being  discussed,  conclude 
him  to  be  indistinguishable  from  the  ordinary  run  of  moneyed 
and  money-getting  men.  Indeed,  hardly  any  of  his  acquaint- 
ances know  what  Mixtus  really  is,  considered  as  a  whole — nor 
does  Mixtus  himself  know  it. 


X. 
DEBASING   THE   MORAL   CURRENCY. 

"  IL  ne  f aut  pas  mettre  un  ridicule  ou  il  n'y  en  a  point : 
c'est  se  giiter  le  gout,  c'est  corrompre  son  jugement  et  celui 
des  autres.  Mais  le  ridicule  qui  est  quelque  part,  il  faut  1'y 
voir,  Pen  tirer  avec  grace  et  d'une  maniere  qui  plaise  et  qui 
instruise." 

I  am  fond  of  quoting  this  passage  from  La  Bruyere,  because 
the  subject  is  one  where  I  like  to  show  a  Frenchman  on  my 
side,  to  save  my  sentiments  from  being  set  down  to  my  pecul- 
iar dulness  and  deficient  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  and  also  that 
they  may  profit  by  that  enhancement  of  ideas  when  presented 
in  a  foreign  tongue,  that  glamour  of  unfamiliarity  conferring  a 
dignity  on  the  foreign  names  of  very  common  things,  of  which 
even  a  philosopher  like  Dugald  Stewart  confesses  the  influ- 
ence. I  remember  hearing  a  fervid  woman  attempt  to  recite 
in  English  the  narrative  of  a  begging  Frenchman  who  described 
the  violent  death  of  his  father  in  the  July  days.  The  narra- 
tive had  impressed  her,  through  the  mists  of  her  flushed  anx- 
iety to  understand  it,  as  something  quite  grandly  pathetic; 
but  finding  the  facts  turn  out  meagre,  and  her  audience  cold, 
she  broke  off,  saying,  "  It  sounded  so  much  finer  in  French — 
j'ai  vu  le  sang  de  mon  pere,  and  so  on — I  wish  I  could  re- 
peat it  in  French."  .  This  was  a  pardonable  illusion  in  an  old- 
fashioned  lady  who  had  not  received  the  polyglot  education  of 
the  present  day ;  but  I  observe  that  even  now  much  nonsense 
and  bad  taste  win  admiring  acceptance  solely  by  virtue  of  the 
French  language,  and  one  may  fairly  desire  that  what  seems  a 
just  discrimination  should  profit  by  the  fashionable  prejudice 
in  favor  of  La  Bruyere's  idiom.  But  I  wish  he  had  added  that 
the  habit  of  dragging  the  ludicrous  into  topics  where  the  chief 
interest  is  of  a  different  or  even  opposite  kind  is  a  sign  not  of 


DEBASING  THE  MORAL  CURRENCY.    »        86 

endowment,  but  of  deficiency.  The  art  of  spoiling  is  within 
reach  of  the  dullest  faculty :  the  coarsest  clown  with  a  ham- 
mer in  his  hand  might  chip  the  nose  off  every  statue  and  bust 
in  the  Vatican,  and  stand  grinning  at  the  effect  of  his  work. 
Because  wit  is  an  exquisite  product  of  high  powers,  we  are 
not  therefore  forced  to  admit  the  sadly  confused  inference  of 
the  monoto»ous  jester  that  he  is  establishing  his  superiority 
over  every  less  facetious  person,  and  over  every  topic  on  which 
he  is  ignorant  or  insensible,  by  being  uneasy  until  he  has  dis- 
torted it  in  the  small  cracked  mirror  which  he  carries  about 
with  him  as  a  joking  apparatus.  Some  high  authority  is 
needed  to  give  many  worthy  and  timid  persons  the  freedom  of 
muscular  repose  under  the  growing  demand  on  them  to  laugh 
when  they  have  no  other  reason  than  the  peril  of  being  taken 
for  dullards ;  still  more  to  inspire  them  with  the  courage  to  say 
that  they  object  to  the  theatrical  spoiling  for  themselves  and 
their  children  of  all  affecting  themes,  all  the  grander  deeds  and 
aims  of  men,  by  burlesque  associations  adapted  to  the  taste  of 
rich  fishmongers  in  the  stalls  and  their  assistants  in  the  gal- 
lery. The  English  people  in  the  present  generation  are  falsely 
reputed  to  know  Shakespeare  (as,  by  some  innocent  persons, 
the  Florentine  mule-drivers  are  believed  to  have  known  the 
Divina  Commedia,  not,  perhaps,  excluding  all  the  subtle  dis- 
courses in  the  Purgatorio  and  Paradisd)  ;  but  there  seems  a 
clear  prospect  that  in  the  coming  generation  he  will  be  known 
to  them  through  burlesques,  and  that  his  plays  will  find  a  new 
life  as  pantomimes.  A  bottle-nosed  Lear  will  come  on  with 
a  monstrous  corpulence  from  which  he  will  frantically  dance 
himself  free"  during  the  midnight  storm;  Eosalind  and  Celia 
will  join  in  a  grotesque  ballet  with  shepherds  and  shepherd- 
esses ;  Ophelia  in  fleshings  and  a  voluminous  brevity  of  grena- 
dine will  dance  through  the  mad  scene,  finishing  with  the 
famous  "  attitude  of  the  scissors  "  in  the  arms  of  Laertes ;  and 
all  the  speeches  in  "Hamlet"  will  be  so  ingeniously  parodied 
that  the  originals  will  be  reduced  to  a  mere  memoria  technica 
of  the  improver's  puns — premonitory  signs  of  a  hideous  mil- 
lennium, in  which  the  lion  will  have  to  lie  down  with  the  las- 
civious monkeys  whom  (if  we  may  trust  Pliny)  his  soul  natu- 
rally abhors. 


86  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

I  have  been  amazed  to  find  that  some  artists  whose  own 
works  have  the  ideal  stamp,  are  quite  insensible  to  the  damag. 
ing  tendency  of  the  burlesquing  spirit  which  ranges  to  and  fro 
and  up  and  down  on  the  earth,  seeing  no  reason  (except  a  pre- 
carious censorship)  why  it  should  not  appropriate  every  sacred, 
heroic,  and  pathetic  theme  which  serves  to  make  up  the  treas- 
ure of  human  admiration,  hope,  and  love.  One  would  have 
thought  that  their  own  half-despairing  efforts  to  invest  in 
worthy  outward  shape  the  vague  inward  impressions  of  sub- 
limity, and  the  consciousness  of  an  implicit  ideal  in  the  com- 
monest scenes,  might  have  made  them  susceptible  of  some 
disgust  or  alarm  at  a  species  of  burlesque  which  is  likely  to  ren- 
der their  compositions  no  better  than  a  dissolving  view,  where 
every  noble  form  is  seen  melting  into  its  preposterous  carica- 
ture. It  used  to  be  imagined  of  the  unhappy  mediaeval  Jews 
that  they  parodied  Calvary  by  crucifying  dogs :  if  they  had 
been  guilty  they  would  at  least  have  had  the  excuse  of  the 
hatred  and  rage  begotten  by  persecution.  Are  we  on  the  way 
to  a  parody  which  shall  have  no  other  excuse  than  the  reckless 
search  after  fodder  for  degraded  appetites — after  the  pay  to 
be  earned  by  pasturing  Circe's  herd  where  they  may  defile 
every  monument  of  that  growing  life  which  should  have  kept 
them  human? 

The  world  seems  to  me  well  supplied  with  what  is  genuinely 
ridiculous :  wit  and  humor  may  play  as  harmlessly  or  benefi- 
cently round  the  changing  facets  of  egoism,  absurdity,  and 
vice,  as  the  sunshine  over  the  rippling  sea  or  the  dewy  mead- 
ows. Why  should  we  make  our  delicious  sense  of  the  ludi- 
crous, with  its  invigorating  shocks  of  laughter  and  its  irrepres- 
sible smiles  which  are  the  outglow  of  an  inward  radiation  as 
gentle  and  cheering  as  the  warmth  of  morning,  flourish  like  a 
brigand  on  the  robbery  of  our  mental  wealth? — or  let  it  take 
its  exercise  as  a  madman  might,  if  allowed  a  free  nightly 
promenade,  by  drawing  the  populace  with  bonfires  which  leave 
some  venerable  structure  a  blackened  ruin  or  send  a  scorching 
smoke  across  the  portraits  of  the  past,  at  which  we  once  looked 
with  a  loving  recognition  of  fellowship,  and  disfigure  them  into 
butts  of  mockery? — nay,  worse — use  it  to  degrade  the  healthy 
appetites  and  affections  of  our  nature  as  they  are  seen  to  be 


DEBASING  THE  MORAL  CURRENCY.  87 

degraded  in  insane  patients  whose  system,  all  out  of  joint, 
finds  matter  for  screaming  laughter  in  mere  topsy-turvy,  makes 
every  passion  preposterous  or  obscene,  and  turns  the  hard-won 
order  of  life  into  a  second  chaos  hideous  enough  to  make  one 
wail  that  the  first  was  ever  thrilled  with  light? 

This  is  what  I  call  debasing  the  moral  currency :  lowering 
the  value  of  every  inspiring  fact  and  tradition  so  that  it  will 
command  less  and  less  of  the  spiritual  products,  the  generous 
motives  which  sustain  the  charm  and  elevation  of  our  social 
existence — the  something  besides  bread  by  which  man  saves 
his  soul  alive.  The  bread-winner  of  the  family  may  demand 
more  and  more  coppery  shillings,  or  assignats,  or  greenbacks 
for  his  day's  work,  and  so  get  the  needful  quantum  of  food; 
but  let  that  moral  currency  be  emptied  of  its  value — let  a 
greedy  buffoonery  debase  all  historic  beauty,  majesty,  and 
pathos,  and  the  more  you  heap  up  the  desecrated  symbols  the 
greater  will  be  the  lack  of  the  ennobling  emotions  which  sub- 
due the  tyranny  of  suffering,  and  make  am'bition  one  with 
social  virtue. 

And  yet  it  seems,  parents  will  put  into  the  hands  of  their 
children  ridiculous  parodies  (perhaps  with  more  ridiculous 
"  illustrations  "  )  of  the  poems  which  stirred  their  own  tender- 
ness or  filial  piety,  and  carry  them  to  make  their  first  acquain- 
tance with  great  men,  great  works,  or  solemn  crises  through 
the  medium  of  some  miscellaneous  burlesque  which,  with  its 
idiotic  puns  and  farcical  attitudes,  will  remain  among  their 
primary  associations,  and  reduce  them  throughout  their  time 
of  studious  preparation  for  life  to  the  moral  imbecility  of  an  in- 
ward giggle  at  what  might  have  stimulated  their  high  emula- 
tion or  fed  the  fountains  of  compassion,  trust,  and  constancy. 
One  Avonders  where  these  parents  have  deposited  that  stock  of 
morally  educating  stimuli  which  is  to  be  independent  of  poetic 
tradition,  and  to  subsist  in  spite  of  the  finest  images  being  de- 
graded and  the  finest  words  of  genius  being  poisoned  as  with 
some  befooling  drug. 

Will  fine  wit,  will  exquisite  humor  prosper  the  more  through 
this  turning  of  all  things  indiscriminately  into  food  for  a  glut- 
tonous laughter,  an  idle  craving  without  sense  of  flavors?  On 
the  contrary.  That  delightful  power  which  La  Bruyere  points 


88  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCtf. 

to — le  ridicule  qui  est  quelque  part,  il  faut  1'y  voir,  1'en  tirer 
avec  grace  et  d'une  maniere  qui  plaise  et  qui  instruise" — de- 
pends on  a  discrimination  only  compatible  with  the  varied  sen- 
sibilities which  give  sympathetic  insight,  and  with  the  justice 
of  perception  which  is  another  name  for  grave  knowledge. 
Such  a  result  is  uo  more  to  be  expected  from  faculties  on  the 
strain  to  find  some  small  hook  by  which  they  may  attach  the 
lowest  incongruity  to  the  most  momentous  subject,  than  it  is 
to  be  expected  of  a  sharper,  watching  for  gulls  in  a  great  po- 
litical assemblage,  that  he  will  notice  the  blundering  logic  of 
partisan  speakers,  or  season  his  observation  with  the  salt  of 
historical  parallels.  But  after  all  our  psychological  teaching, 
and  in  the  midst  of  our  zeal  for  education,  we  are  still,  most 
of  us,  at  the  stage  of  believing  that  mental  powers  and  habits 
have  somehow,  not  perhaps  in  the  general  statement,  but  in 
any  particular  case,  a  kind  of  spiritual  glaze  against  conditions 
which  we  are  continually  applying  to  them.  We  soak  our  chil- 
dren in  habits  of  contempt  and  exultant  gibing,  and  yet  are 
confident  that — as  Clarissa  one  day  said  to  me — "  We  can  al- 
ways teach  them  to  be  reverent  in  the  right  place,  you  know." 
And  doubtless  if  she  were  to  take  her  boys  to  see  a  burlesque 
Socrates,  with  swollen  legs,  dying  in  tke  utterance  of  cockney 
puns,  and  were  to  hang  up  a  sketch  of  this  comic  scene  among 
their  bedroom  prints,  she  would  think  this  preparation  not  at 
all  to  the  prejudice  of  their  emotions  on  hearing  their  tutor 
read  that  narrative  of  the  Apology  which  has  been  consecrated 
by  the  reverent  gratitude  of  ages.  This  is  the  impoverish- 
ment that  threatens  our  posterity : — a  new  Famine,  a  meagre 
fiend  with  lewd  grin  and  clumsy  hoof,  is  breathing  a  moral 
mildew  over  the  harvest  of  our  human  sentiments.  These  are 
the  most  delicate  elements  of  our  too  easily  perishable  civiliza- 
tion. And  here  again  I  like  to  quote  a  French  testimony. 
Sainte  Beuve,  referring  to  a  time  of  insurrectionary  disturbance, 
says :  "  Rien  de  plus  prompt  a  baisser  que  la  civilisation  dans 
des  crises  comme  celle-ci ;  on  perd  en  trois  semaines  le  resultat 
de  plusieurs  siecles.  La  civilisation,  la  vie  est  une  chose  ap- 
prise et  inventee  qu'on  le  sache  bien  -,  '  Inventas  aut  qui  vitam 
excoluere  per  artes. '  Les  hommes  apres  quelques  anne"es  de 
paix  oublient  trop  cette  verite :  ils  arrivent  a  croire  que  la 


DEBASING  THE  MORAL  CURRENCY.  89 

culture  est  chose  inne"e,  qu'elle  est  la  meme  chose  que  la  na- 
ture. La  sauvagerie  est  toujours  la  a  deux  pas,  et,  des  qu'on 
lache  pied,  elle  recommence."  We  have  been  severely  enough 
taught  (if  we  were  willing  to  learn)  that  our  civilization, 
considered  as  a  splendid  material  fabric,  is  helplessly  in  peril 
without  the  spiritual  police  of  sentiments  or  ideal  feelings. 
And  it  is  this  invisible  police  which  we  had  need,  as  a  com- 
munity, strive  to  maintain  in  efficient  force.  How  if  a  dan- 
gerous "  Swing  "  were  sometimes  disguised  in  a  versatile  enter- 
tainer devoted  to  the  amusement  of  mixed  audiences?  And  I 
confess  that  sometimes  when  I  see  a  certain  style  of  young 
lady,  who  checks  our  tender  admiration  with  rouge  and  henna 
and  all  the  blazonry  of  an  extravagant  expenditure,  with  slang 
and  bold  brusquerle  intended  to  signify  her  emancipated  view 
of  things,  and  with  cynical  mockery  which  she  mistakes  for 
penetration,  I  am  sorely  tempted  to  hiss  out  "  Petroleuse!" 
It  is  a  small  matter  to  have  our  palaces  set  aflame  compared 
with  the  misery  of  having  our  sense  of  a  noble  womanhood, 
which  is  the  inspiration  of  a  purifying  shame,  the  promise  of 
life-penetrating  affection,  stained  and  blotted  out  by  images  of 
repulsiveness.  These  things  come — not  of  higher  education, 
but — of  dull  ignorance  fostered  into  pertness  by  the  greedy 
vulgarity  which  reverses  Peter' s  visionary  lesson  and  learns  to 
call  all  things  common  and  unclean.  It  comes  of  debasing  the' 
moral  currency. 

The  Tirynthians,  according  to  an  ancient  story  reported 
by  Athenseus,  becoming  conscious  that  their,  trick  of  laughter 
at  everything  and  nothing  was  making  them  unfit  for  the  con- 
duct of  serious  affairs,  appealed  to  the  Delphic  oracle  for  some 
means  of  cure.  The  god  prescribed  a  peculiar  form  of  sacrifice 
which  would  be  effective  if  they  could  carry  it  through  with- 
out laughing.  They  did  their  best ;  but  the  flimsy  joke  of  a 
boy  upset  their  unaccustomed  gravity,  and  in  this  way  the 
oracle  taught  them  that  even  the  gods  could  not  prescribe  a 
quick  cure  for  a  long  vitiatio'n,  or  give  power  and  dignity  to  a. 
people  who  in  a  crisis  of  the  public  well-being  were  at  the 
mercy  of  a  poor  jest. 


XT. 

THE   WASP   CREDITED  WITH  THE  HONEYCOMB. 

No  man,  I  imagine,  would  object  more  strongly  than  Eu- 
phorion  to  communistic  principles  in  relation  to  material  prop- 
erty, but  with  regard  to  property  in  ideas  he  entertains  such 
principles  willingly,  and  is  disposed  to  treat  the  distinction 
between  Mine  and  Thine  in  original  authorship  as  egoistic, 
narrowing,  and  low.  I  have  known  him,  indeed,  insist  at 
some  expense  of  erudition  on  the  prior  right  of  an  ancient,  a 
mediaeval,  or  an  eighteenth  century  writer  to  be  credited  with 
a  view  or  statement  lately  advanced  with  some  show  of  origi- 
nality; and  this  championship  seems  to  imply  a  nicety  of 
conscience  toward  the  dead.  He  is  evidently  unwilling  that 
his  neighbors  should  get  more  credit  than  is  due  to  them,  and 
in  this  way  he  appears  to  recognize  a  certain  proprietorship 
even  in  spiritual  production.  But  perhaps  it  is  no  real  incon- 
sistency that,  with  regard  to  many  instances  of  modern  origi- 
nation, it  is  his  habit  to  talk  with  a  Gallic  largeness  and  refer 
to  the  universe :  he  expatiates  on  the  diffusive  nature  of  intel- 
lectual products,  free  and  all-embracing  as  the  liberal  air ;  on 
the  infinitesimal  smallness  of  individual  origination  compared 
with  the  massive  inheritance  of  thought  on  which  every  new 
generation  enters ;  on  that  growing  preparation  for  every  epoch 
through  which  certain  ideas  or  modes  of  view  are  said  to  be  in 
the  air,  and,  still  more  metaphorically  speaking,  to  be  inevita- 
bly absorbed,  so  that  every  one  may  be  excused  for  not  know- 
ing how  he  got  them.  Above  all,  he  insists -on  the  proper 
subordination  of  the  irritable  self,  the  mere  vehicle  of  an  idea 
or  combination  which,  being  produced  by  the  sum  total  of  the 
human  race,  must  belong  to  that  multiple  entity,  from  the  ac- 
complished lecturer  or  popularizer  who  transmits  it,  to  the 
remotest  generation  of  Fuegians  or  Hottentots,  however  indif- 


THE  WASP  CREDITED  WITH  THE   HONEYCOMB.      91 

ferent  these  may  be  to  the  superiority  of  their  right  above  that 
of  the  eminently  perishable  dyspeptic  author. 

One  may  admit  that  such  considerations  carry  a  profound 
truth  to  be  even  religiously  contemplated,  and  yet  object  all 
the  more  to  the  mode  in  which  Euphorion  seems  to  apply 
them.  I  protest  against  the  use  of  these  majestic  conceptions 
to  do  the  dirty  work  of  unscrupulosity  and  justify  the  non- 
payment of  conscious  debts  which  cannot  be  defined  or  enforced 
by  the  law.  Especially  since  it  is  observable  that  the  large 
views  as  to  intellectual  property  which  can  apparently  reconcile 
an  able  person  to  the  use  of  lately  borrowed  ideas  as  if  they 
were  his  own,  when  this  spoliation  is  favored  by  the  public 
darkness,  never  hinder  him  from  joining  in  the  zealous  tribute 
of  recognition  and  applause  to  those  warriors  of  Truth  whose 
triumphal  arches  are  seen  in  the  public  ways,  those  conquerors 
whose  battles  and  "  annexations "  even  the  carpenters  and 
bricklayers  know  by  name.  Surely  the  acknowledgment  of 
a  mental  debt  which  will  not  be  immediately  detected,  and 
may  never  be  asserted,  is  a  case  to  which  the  traditional  sus- 
ceptibility to  "  debts  of  honor  "  would  be  suitably  transferred. 
There  is  no  massive  public  opinion  that  can  be  expected  to  tell 
on  these  relations  of  thinkers  and  investigators — relations  to 
be  thoroughly  understood  and  felt  only  by  those  who  are  inter- 
ested in  the  life  of  ideas  and  acquainted  with  their  history. 
To  lay  false  claim  to  an  invention  or  discovery  which  lias  an 
immediate  market  value ;  to  vamp  up  a  professedly  new  book 
of  reference  by  stealing  from  the  pages  of  one  already  produced 
at  the  cost  of  much  labor  and  material ;  to  copy  somebody 
else's  poem  and  send  the  manuscript  to  a  magazine,  or  hand  it 
about  among  friends  as  an  original  "  effusion  " ;  to  deliver  an 
elegant  extract  from  a  known  writer  as  a  piece  of  improvised 
eloquence: — these  are  the  limits  within  which  the  dishonest 
pretence  of  originality  is  likely  to  get  hissed  or  hooted  and 
bring  more  or  less  shame  on  the  culprit.  It  is  not  necessary 
to  understand  the  merit  of  a  performance,  or  even  to  spell 
with  any  comfortable  confidence,  in  order  to  perceive  at  once 
that  such  pretences  are  not  respectable.  But  the  difference 
between  these  vulgar  frauds,  these  devices  of  ridiculous  jays 
whose  ill-secured  plumes  are  seen  falling  off  them  as  they  run, 


92  THEOPHRASTUS   SUCH. 

and  the  quiet  appropriation  of  other  people's  philosophic  01 
scientific  ideas,  can  hardly  be  held  to  lie  in  their  moral  quality 
unless  we  take  impunity  as  our  criterion.  The  pitiable  jays 
had  no  presumption  in  their  favor  and  foolishly  fronted  an 
alert  incredulity;  but  Euphorion,  the  accomplished  theorist, 
has  an  audience  who  expect  much  of  him,  and  take  it  as  the 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world  that  every  unusual  view  which 
he  presents  anonymously  should  be  due  solely  to  his  ingenuity. 
His  borrowings  are  no  incongruous  feathers  awkwardly  stuck 
onj  they  have  an  appropriateness  which  makes  them  seem 
an  answer  to  anticipation,  like  the  return  phrases  of  a  melody. 
Certainly  one  cannot  help  the  ignorant  conclusions  of  polite 
society,  and  there  are  perhaps  fashionable  persons  who,  if  a 
speaker  has  occasion  to  explain  what  the  occiput  is,  will  con- 
sider that  he  has  lately  discovered  that  curiously  named  por- 
tion of  the  animal  frame :  one  cannot  give  a  genealogical  intro- 
duction to  every  long-stored  item  of  fact  or  conjecture  that 
may  happen  to  be  a  revelation  for  the  large  class  of  persons 
who  are  understood  to  judge  soundly  on  a  small  basis  of  knowl- 
edge. But  Euphorion  would  be  very  sorry  to  have  it  supposed 
that  he  is  unacquainted  with  the  history  of  ideas,  and  some- 
times carries  even  into  minutiae  the  evidence  of  his  exact  regis- 
tration of  names  in  connection  with  quotable  phrases  or  sug- 
gestions :  I  can  therefore  only  explain  the  apparent  infirmity 
of  his  memory  in  cases  of  larger  "  conveyance  "  by  supposing 
that  he  is  accustomed  by  the  very  association  of  largeness  to 
range  them  at  once  under  those  grand  laws  of  the  universe  in 
the  light  of  which  Mine  and  Thine  disappear  and  are  resolved 
into  Everybody's  or  Nobody's,  and  one  man's  particular  obli- 
gations to  another  melt  untraceably  into  the  obligations  of  the 
earth  to  the  solar  system  in  general. 

Euphorion  himself,  if  a  particular  omission  of  acknowledg- 
ment were  brought  home  to  him,  would  probably  take  a  nar- 
rower ground  of  explanation.  It  was  a  lapse  of  memory ;  or 
it  did  not  occur  to  him  as  necessary  in  this  case  to  mention  a 
name,  the  source  being  well  known — or  (since  this  seems 
usually  to  act  as  a  strong  reason  for  mention)  he  rather  ab- 
stained from  adducing  the  name  because  it  might  injure  the 
excellent  matter  advanced,  just  as  an  obscure  trade-mark  casts 


THE  WASP  CREDITED  WITH  THE  HONEYCOMB.      93 

discredit  on  a  good  commodity,  and  even  on  the  retailer  who 
has  furnished  himself  from  a  quarter  not  likely  to  be  esteemed 
first-rate.  No  doubt  this  last  is  a  genuine  and  frequent  rea- 
son for  the  non-acknowledgment  of  indebtedness  to  what  one 
may  call  impersonal  as  well  as  personal  sources:  even  an 
American  editor  of  school  classics,  whose  own  English  could 
not  pass  for  more  than  a  syntactical  shoddy  of  the  cheapest 
sort,  felt  it  unfavorable  to  his  reputation  for  sound  learning 
that  he  should  be  obliged  to  the  Penny  Cyclopaedia,  and  dis- 
guised his  references  to  it  under  contractions  in  which  Us. 
Knowl.  took  the  place  of  the  low  word  Penny.  Works  of  this 
convenient  stamp,  easily  obtained  and  well  nourished  with 
matter,  are  felt  to  be  like  rich  but  unfashionable  relations 
who  are  visited  and  received  in  privacy,  and  whose  capital  is 
used  or  inherited  without  any  ostentatious  insistence  on  their 
names  and  places  of  abode.  As  to  memory,  it  is  known  that 
this  frail  faculty  naturally  lets  drop  the  facts  which  are  less 
flattering  to  our  self-love- — when  it  does  not  retain  them  care- 
fully as  subjects  not  to  be  approached,  marshy  spots  with  a 
warning  flag  over  them.  But  it  is  always  interesting  to  bring 
forward  eminent  names,  such  as  Patricius  or  Scaliger,  Euler 
Of  Lagrange,  Bopp  or  Humboldt.  To  know  exactly  what  has 
been  drawn  from  them  is  erudition  and  heightens  our  own  in- 
fluence, which  seems  advantageous  to  mankind;  whereas  to 
cite  an  author  whose  ideas  may  pass  as  higher  currency  under 
our  own  signature  can  have  no  object  except  the  contradictory 
one  of  throwing  the  illumination  over  his  figure  when  it  is  im- 
portant to  be  seen  one's  self.  All  these  reasons  must  weigh  con- 
siderably with  those  speculative  persons  who  have  to  ask  them- 
selves whether  or  not  Universal  Utilitarianism  requires  that 
in  the  particular  instance  before  them  they  shouldMujure  a 
man  who  has  been  of  service  to  them,  and  rob  a  fellow-work- 
man of  the  credit  which  is  due  to  him. 

After  all,  however,  it  must  be  admitted  that  hardly  any 
accusation  is  more  difficult  to  prove,  and  more  liable  to  be 
false,  than  that  of  a  plagiarism  which  is  the  conscious  theft  of 
ideas  and  deliberate  reproduction  of  them  as  original.  The 
arguments  on  the  side  of  acquittal  are  obvious  and  strong: — 
the  inevitable  coincidences  of  contemporary  thinking ;  and  our 


94  THEOPHRASTU8  SUCH. 

continual  experience  of  finding  notions  turning  up  in  our  minds 
without  any  label  on  them  to  tell  us  whence  they  came,  so  that 
if  we  are  in  the  habit  of  expecting  much  from  our  own  capacity 
we  accept  them  at  once  as  a  new  inspiration.  Then,  in  rela- 
tion to  the  elder  authors,  there  is  the  difficulty  first  of  learning 
and  then  of  remembering  exactly  what  has  been  wrought  into 
the  backward  tapestry  of  the  world's  history,  together  with 
the  fact  that  ideas  acquired  long  ago  reappear  as  the  sequence 
of  an  awakened  interest  or  a  line  of  inquiry  which  is  really 
new  in  us,  whence  it  is  conceivable  that  if  we  were  ancients 
some  of  us  might  be  offering  grateful  hecatombs  by  mistake, 
and  proving  our  honesty  in  a  ruinously  expensive  manner. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  evidence  on  which  plagiarism  is  con- 
cluded is  often  of  a  kind  which,  though  much  trusted  in  ques- 
tions of  erudition  and  historical  criticism,  is  apt  to  lead  us 
injuriously  astray  in  our  daily  judgments,  especially  of  the 
resentful,  condemnatory  sort.  How  Pythagoras  came  by  his 
ideas,  whether  St.  Paul  was  acquainted  with  all  the  Greek 
poets,  what  Tacitus  must  have  known  by  hearsay  and  syste- 
matically ignored,  are  points  on  which  a  false  persuasion  of 
knowledge  is  less  damaging  to, justice  and  charity  than  an  er- 
roneous confidence,  supported  by  reasoning  fundamentally  simi- 
lar, of  my  neighbor's  blameworthy  behavior  in  a  case  where 
I  am  personally  concerned.  No  premises  require  closer 
scrutiny  than  those  which  lead  to  the  constantly  echoed  con- 
clusion, "He  must  have  known,"  or  "He  must  have  read." 
I  marvel  that  this  facility  of  belief  on  the  side  of  knowledge 
can  subsist  under  the  daily  demonstration  that  the  easiest  of 
all  things  to  the  human  mind  is  not  to  know  and  not  to  read. 
To  praise,  to  blame,  to  shout,  grin,  or  hiss,  where  others 
shout,  grin,  or  hiss — these  are  native  tendencies ;  but  to  know 
and  to  read  are  artificial,  hard  accomplishments,  concerning 
which  the  only  safe  supposition  is,  that  as  little  of  them  has 
been  done  as  the  case  admits.  An  author,  keenly  conscious  of 
having  written,  can  hardly  help  imagining  his  condition  of 
lively  interest  to  be  shared  by  others,  just  as  we  are  all  apt  to 
suppose  that  the  chill  or  heat  we  are  conscious  of  must  be  gen- 
eral, or  even  to  think  that  our  sons  and  daughters,  our  pet 
schemes,  and  our  quarrelling  correspondence,  are  themes  to 


THE  WASP  CREDITED  WITH  THE  HONEYCOMB.      96 

which  intelligent  persons  will  listen  long  without  weariness. 
But  if  the  ardent  author  happen  to  be  alive  to  practical  teach- 
ing he  will  soon  learn  to  divide  the  larger  part  of  the  enlight- 
ened public  into  those  who  have  not  read  him  and  think  it 
necessary  to  tell  him  so  when  they  meet  him  in  polite  society, 
and  those  who  have  equally  abstained  from  reading  him,  but 
wish  to  conceal  this  negation  and  speak  of  his  "  incomparable 
works"  with  that  trust  in  testimony  which  always  has  its 
cheering  side. 

Hence  it  is  worse  than  foolish  to  entertain  silent  suspicions 
of  plagiarism,  still  more  to  give  them  voice,  when  they  are 
founded  on  a  construction  of  probabilities  which  a  little  more 
attention  to  every-day  occurrences  as  a  guide  in  reasoning 
would  show  us  to  be  really  worthless,  considered  as  proof. 
The  "length  to  which  one  man's  memory  can  go  in  letting  drop 
associations  that  are  vital  to  another  can  hardly  find  a  limit. 
It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  a  person  desirous  to  make  an 
agreeable  impression  on  you  would  deliberately  choose  to  insist 
to  you,  with  some  rhetorical  sharpness,  on  an  argument  which 
you  were  the  first  to  elaborate  in  public ;  yet  any  one  who  lis- 
tens may  overhear  such  instances  of  obliviousness.  You  natu- 
rally remember  your  peculiar  connection  with  your  acquaint- 
ance's judicious  views ;  but  why  should  he  ?  Your  fatherhood, 
which  is  an  intense  feeling  to  you,  is  only  an  additional  fact  of 
meagre  interest  for  him  to  remember ;  and  a  sense  of  obliga- 
tion to  the  particular  living  fellow-struggler  who  has  helped 
us  in  our  thinking,  is  not  yet  a  form  of  memory  the  want  of 
which  is  felt  to  be  disgraceful  or  derogatory,  unless  it  is  taken 
to  be  a  want  of  polite  instruction,  or  causes  the  missing  of  a 
cockade  on  a  day  of  celebration.  In  our  suspicions  of  plagiar- 
ism, we  must  recognize  as  the  first  weighty  probability,  that 
what  we  who  feel  injured  remember  best  is  precisely  what  is 
least  likely  to  enter  lastingly  into  the  memory  of  our  neigh- 
bors. But  it  is  fair  to  maintain  that  the  neighbor  who  bor- 
rows your  property,  loses  it  for  a  while,  and  when  it  turns  up 
again  forgets  your  connection  with  it  and  counts  it  his  own, 
shows  himself  so  much  the  feebler  in  grasp  and  rectitude  of 
mind.  Some  absent  persons  cannot  remember  the  state  of 
wear  in  their  own  hats  and  umbrellas,  and  have  no  mental 


%  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

check  to  tell  them  that  they  have  carried  home  a  fellow-visi- 
tor's more  recent  purchase:  they  may  be  excellent  household- 
ers, far  removed  from  the  suspicion  of  low  devices,  but  one 
wishes  them  a  more  correct  perception,  and  a  more  wary  sense 
that  a  neighbor's  umbrella  may  be  newer  than  their  own. 

True,  some  persons  are  so  constituted  that  the  very  excel- 
lence of  an  idea  seems  to  them  a  convincing  reason  that  it 
must  be,  if  not  solely,  yet  especially  theirs.     It  fits  in  so 
beautifully  with  their  general  wisdom,  it  lies  implicitly  in  so 
many  of  their  manifested  opinions,  that  if  they  have  not  yet 
expressed  it  (because  of  preoccupation)  it  is  clearly  a  part  of 
their  indigenous  produce,  and  is  proved  by  their  immediate 
eloquent  promulgation  of  it  to  belong  more  naturally  and  ap- 
propriately to  them  than  to  the  person  who  seemed  first  to 
have  alighted  on  it,  and  who  sinks  in  their  all-originating  con- 
sciousness to  that  low  kind  of  entity,  a  second  cause.     This  is 
not  lunacy,  nor  pretence,  but  a  genuine  state  of  mind  very 
effective  in  practice  and  often  carrying  the  public  with  it,  so 
that  the  poor  Columbus  is  found  to  be  a  very  faulty  adventurer 
and  the  continent  is  named  after  Amerigo.     Lighter  examples 
of  this  instinctive  appropriation  are  constantly  met  with  among 
brilliant  talkers.     Aquila  is  too  agreeable  and  amusing  for  any 
one  who  is  not  himself  bent  on  display  to  be  angry  at  his  con- 
versational rapine — his  habit  of  darting  down  on  every  morsel 
of  booty  that  other  birds  may  hold  in  their  beaks,  with  an  in- 
nocent air  as  if  it  were  all  intended  for  his  use  and  honestly 
counted  on  by  him  as  a  tribute  in  kind.     Hardly  any  man,  I 
imagine,  can  have  had  less  trouble  in  gathering  a  showy  stock 
of  information   than   Aquila.     On  close  inquiry  you  would 
probably  find  that  he  had  not  read  one  epoch-making  book  of 
modern  times,  for  he  has  a  career  which  obliges  him  to  much 
correspondence  and  other  official  work,  and  he  is  too  fond  of 
being  in  company  to  spend  his  leisure  moments  in  study ;  but 
to  his  quick  eye,  ear,  and  tongue,  a  few  predatory  excursions 
in  conversation  where  there  are  instructed  persons  gradually 
furnish  surprisingly  clever  modes  of  statement  and  allusion  on 
the  dominant  topic.     When  he  first  adopts  a  subject  he  neces- 
sarily falls  into  mistakes,  and  it  is  interesting  to  watch  his 
progress  into  fuller  information  and  better  nourished  irony, 


THE  WASP  CREDITED  WITH  THE  HONEYCOMB.      9fr 

without  his  ever  needing  to  admit  that  he  has  made  a  blunder 
or  to  appear  conscious  of  correction.  Suppose,  for  example, 
he  had  incautiously  founded  some  ingenious  remarks  on  a  hasty 
reckoning  that  nine  thirteens  made  a  hundred  and  two,  and 
the  insignificant  Bantam,  hitherto  silent,  seemed  to  spoil  the 
flow  of  ideas  by  stating  that  the  product  could  not  be  taken  as 
less  than  a  hundred  and  seventeen,  Aquila  would  glide  on  in 
the  most  graceful  manner  from  a  repetition  of  his  previous 
remark  to  the  continuation — "  All  this  is  on  the  supposition 
that  a  hundred  and  two  were  all7  that  could  be  got  out  of  nine 
thirteens ;  but  as  all  the  world  knows  that  nine  thirteens  will 
yield,"  etc. — proceeding  straightway  into  a  new  train  of  inge- 
nious consequences,  and  causing  Bantam  to  be  regarded  by  all 
present  as  one  of  those  slow  persons  who  take  irony  for  igno- 
rance, and  who  would  warn  the  weasel  to  keep  awake.  How 
should  a  small-eyed,  feebly  crowing  mortal  like  him  be  quick- 
er in  arithmetic  than  the  keen -faced  forcible  Aquila,  in  whom 
universal  knowledge  is  easily  credible?  Looked  into  closely, 
the  conclusion  from  a  man's  profile,  voice,  and  fluency  to  his 
certainty  in  multiplication  beyond  the  twelves,  seems  to  show 
a  confused  notion  of  the  way  in  which  very  common  things 
are  connected;  but  it  is  on  such  false  correlations  that  men 
found  half  their  inferences  about  each  other,  and  high  places 
of  trust  may  sometimes  be  held  on  no  better  foundation. 

It  is  a  commonplace  that  words,  writings,  measures,  and 
performances  in  general,  have  qualities  assigned  them  not  by 
a  direct  judgment  on  the  performances  themselves,  but  by  a 
presumption  of  what  they  are  likely  to  be,  considering  who  is 
the  performer.  We  all  notice  in  our  neighbors  this  reference 
to  names  as  guides  in  criticism,  and  all  furnish  illustrations  of 
it  in  our  own  practice;  for,  check  ourselves  as  we  will,  the 
first  impression  from  any  sort  of  work  must  depend  on  a  pre- 
vious attitude  of  mind,  and  this  will  constantly  be  determined 
by  the  influences  of  a  name.  But  that  our  prior  confidence  or 
want  of  confidence  in  given  names  is  made  up  of  judgments 
just  as  hollow  as  the  consequent  praise  or  blame  they  are  ta-' 
ken  to  warrant,  is  less  commonly  perceived,  though  there  is  a 
conspicuous  indication  of  it  in  the  surprise  or  disappointment 
often  manifested  in  the  disclosure  of  an  authorship  about 
T 


98  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

which  everybody  has  been  making  wrong  guesses.  No  doubt 
if  it  had  been  discovered  who  wrote  the  "  Vestiges, "  many  an 
ingenious  structure  of  probabilities  would  have  been  spoiled, 
and  some  disgust  might  have  been  felt  for  a  real  author  who 
made  comparatively  so  shabby  an  appearance  of  likelihood.  It 
is  this  foolish  trust  in  prepossessions,  founded  on  spurious 
evidence,  which  makes  a  medium  of  encouragement  for  those 
who,  happening  to  have  the  ear  of  the  public,  give  other 
people's  ideas  the  advantage  of  appearing  under  their  own 
well-received  name,  while  any  remonstrance  from  the  real  pro- 
ducer becomes  an  unwelcome  disturbance  of  complacency  with 
each  person  who  has  paid  complimentary  tributes  in  the  wrong 
place. 

Hardly  any  kind  of  false  reasoning  is  more  ludicrous  than 
this  on  the  probabilities  of  origination.  It  would  be  amusing 
to  catechise  the  guessers  as  to  their  exact  reasons  for  thinking 
their  guess  "  likely " :  why  Hoopoe  of  John's  has  fixed  on 
Toucan  of  Magdalen ;  why  Shrike  attributes  its  peculiar  style 
to  Buzzard,  who  has  not  hitherto  been  known  as  a  writer; 
why  the  fair  Columba  thinks  it  must  belong  to  the  reverend 
Merula ;  and  why  they  are  all  alike  disturbed  in  their  previous 
judgment  of  its  value  by  finding  that  it  really  came  from 
Skunk,  whom  they  had  either  not  thought  of  at  all,  or  thought 
of  as  belonging  to  a  species  excluded  by  the  nature  of  the  case. 
Clearly  they  were  all  wrong  in  their  notion  of  the  specific  con- 
ditions, which  lay  unexpectedly  in  the  small  Skunk,  and  in 
him  alone — in  spite  of  his  education  nobody  knows  where,  in 
spite  of  somebody's  knowing  his  uncles  and  cousins,  and  in 
spite  of  nobody's  knowing  that  he  was  cleverer  than  they 
thought  him. 

Such  guesses  remind  one  of  a  fabulist's  imaginary  council  of 
animals  assembled  to  consider  what  sort  of  creature  had  con- 
structed a  honeycomb  found  and  much  tasted  by  Bruin  and 
other  epicures.  The  speakers  all  started  from  the  probability 
that  the  maker  was  a  bird,  because  this  was  the  quarter  from 
which  a  wondrous  nest  might  be  expected ;  for  the  animals  at 
that  time,  knowing  little  of  their  own  history,  would  have  re- 
jected as  inconceivable  the  notion  that  a  nest  could  be  made  by 
a  fish ;  and  as  to  the  insects,  they  were  not  willingly  received 


THE  WASP  CREDITED  WITH  THE  HONEYCOMB.      99 

in  society  and  their  ways  were  little  known.  Several  compli- 
mentary presumptions  were  expressed  that  the  honeycomb  was 
due  to  one  or  the  other  admired  and  popular  bird,  and  there 
was  much  fluttering  on  the  part  of  the  Nightingale  and  Swal- 
low, neither  of  whom  gave  a  positive  denial,  their  confusion 
perhaps  extending  to  their  sense  of  identity;  but  the  Owl 
hissed  at  this  folly,  arguing  from  his  particular  knowledge 
that  the  animal  which  produced  honey  must  be  the  Musk-rat, 
the  wondrous  nature  of  whose  secretions  required  no  proof; 
and,  in^the  powerful  logical  procedure  of  the  Owl,  from  musk 
to  honey  was  but  a  step.  Some  disturbance  arose  hereupon, 
for  the  Musk-rat  began  to  make  himself  obtrusive,  believing 
in  the  Owl's  opinion  of  his  powers,  and  feeling  that  he  could 
have  produced  the  honey  if  he  had  thought  of  it;  until  an 
experimental  Butcher-bird  proposed  to  anatomize  him  as  a 
help  to  decision.  The  hubbub  increased,  the  opponents  of  the 
Musk-rat  inquiring  who  his  ancestors  were ;  until  a  diversion 
was  created  by  an  able  discourse  of  the  Macaw  on  structures 
generally,  which  he  classified  so  as  to  include  the  honeycomb, 
entering  into  so  much  admirable  exposition  that  there  was  a 
prevalent  sense  of  the  honeycomb  having  probably  been  pro- 
duced by  one  who  understood  it  so  well.  But  Bruin,  who  had 
probably  eaten  too  much  to  listen  with  edification,  grumbled 
in  his  low  kind  of  language,  that  "  Fine  words  butter  no  pars- 
nips, "  by  which  he  meant  to  say  that  there  was  no  new  honey 
forthcoming. 

Perhaps  the  audience  generally  was  beginning  to  tire,  when 
the  Fox  entered  with  his  snout  dreadfully  swollen,  and  report- 
ed that  the  beneficent  originator  in  question  was  the  Wasp, 
which  he  had  found  much  smeared  with  undoubted  honey, 
having  applied  his  nose  to  it — whence  indeed  the  able  insect, 
perhaps  justifiably  irritated  at  what  might  seem  a  sign  of  scep- 
ticism, had  stung  him  with  some  severity,  an  infliction  Rey- 
nard could  hardly  regret,  since  the  swelling  of  a  snout  nor- 
mally so  delicate  would  corroborate  his  statement  and  satisfy  the 
assembly  that  he  had  really  found  the  honey-creating  genius. 

The  Fox's  admitted  acuteness,  combined  with  the  visible 
swelling,  were  taken  as  undeniable  evidence,  and  the  revela- 
tion undoubtedly  met  a  general  desire  for  information  on  a 


100  THEOPHRA.STTJS  SUCH. 

point  of  interest.  Nevertheless,  there  was  a  murmur  the  re- 
verse of  delighted,  and  the  feelings  of  some  eminent  animals 
were  too  strong  for  them :  the  Orang-outang's  jaw  dropped  so 
as  seriously  to  impair  the  vigor  of  his  expression,  the  edifying 
Pelican  screamed  and  flapped  her  wings,  the  Owl  hissed  again, 
the  Macaw  became  loudly  incoherent,  and  the  Gibbon  gave  his 
hysterical  laugh ;  while  the  Hyena,  after  indulging  in  a  more 
splenetic  guffaw,  agitated  the  question  whether  it  would  not 
be  better  to  hush  up  the  whole  affair,  instead  of  giving  public 
recognition  to  an  insect  whose  produce,  it  was  now  plain,  had 
been  much  over-estimated.  But  this  narrow-spirited  motion 
was  negatived  by  the  sweet-toothed  majority.  A  compliment- 
ary deputation  to  the  Wasp  was  resolved  on,  and  there  was  a 
confident  hope  that  this  diplomatic  measure  would  tell  on  the 
production  of  honey. 


XII. 
"  SO    YOUNG  !  " 

GANYMEDE  was  once  a  girlishly  handsome,  precocious  youth. 
That  one  cannot  for  any  considerable  number  of  years  go  on 
being  youthful,  girlishly  handsome,  and  precocious,  seems 
on  consideration  to  be  a  statement  as  worthy  of  credit  as  the 
famous  syllogistic  conclusion,  "Socrates  was  mortal."  But 
many  circumstances  have  conspired  to  keep  up  in  Ganymede 
the  illusion  that  he  is  surprisingly  young.  He  was  the  last 
born  of  his  family,  and  from  his  earliest  memory  was  accus- 
tomed to  be  commended  as  such  to  the  care  of  his  elder  broth- 
ers and  sisters:  he  heard  his  mother  speak  of  him  as  her 
youngest  darling  with  a  loving  pathos  in  her  tone,  which  natu- 
rally suffused  his  own  views  of  himself,  and  gave  him  the 
habitual  consciousness  of  being  at  once  very  young  and  very 
interesting.  Then,  the  disclosure  of  his  tender  years  was  a 
constant  matter  of  astonishment  to  strangers  who  had  had 
proof  of  his  precocious  talents,  and  the  astonishment  extended 
to  what  is  called  the  world  at  large  when  he  produced  "  A  Com- 
parative Estimate  of  European  Nations  "  before  he  was  well 
out  of  his  teens.  All  comers,  on  a  first  interview,  told  him 
that  he  was  marvellously  young,  and  some  repeated  the  state- 
ment each  time  they  saw  him ;  all  critics  who  wrote  about  him 
called  attention  to  the  same  ground  for  wonder :  his  deficien- 
cies and  excesses  were  alike  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  flatter- 
ing fact  of  his  youth,  and  his  youth  was  the  golden  back- 
ground which  set  off  his  many-hued  endowments.  Here  was 
already  enough  to  establish  a  strong  association  between  his 
sense  of  identity  and  his  sense  of  being  unusually  young.  But 
after  this  he  devised  and  founded  an  ingenious  organization  for 
consolidating  the  literary  interests  of  all  the  four  continents 
(subsequently  including  Australasia  and  Polynesia),  he  him- 


102  THEOPHKASTUS   SUCH. 

self  presiding  in  the  central  office,  which  thus  became  a  new 
theatre  for  the  constantly  repeated  situation  of  an  astonished 
stranger  in  the  presence  of  a  boldly  scheming  administrator 
found  to  be  remarkably  young.  If  we  imagine  with  due  char- 
ity the  effect  on  Ganymede,  we  shall  think  it  greatly  to  his 
credit  that  he  continued  to  feel,  the  necessity  of  being  some- 
thing more  than  young,  and  did  not  sink  by  rapid  degrees  into 
a  parallel  of  that  melancholy  object,  a  superannuated  youthful 
phenomenon.  Happily  he  had  enough  of  valid,  active  faculty 
to  save  him  from  that  tragic  fate.  He  had  not  exhausted  his 
fountain  of  eloquent  opinion  in  his  "Comparative  Estimate," 
so  as  to  feel  himself  like  some  other  juvenile  celebrities,  the 
sad  survivor  of  his  own  manifest  destiny,  or  like  one  who  has 
risen  too  early  in  the  morning,  and  finds  all  the  solid  day 
turned  into  a  fatigued  afternoon.  He  has  continued  to  be 
productive  both  of  schemes  and  writings,  being  perhaps  helped 
by  the  fact  that  his  "  Comparative  Estimate  "  did  not  greatly 
affect  the  currents  of  European  thought,  and  left  him  with  the 
stimulating  hope  that  he  had  not  done  his  best,  but  might  yet 
produce  what  would  make  his  youth  more  surprising  than 
ever. 

I  saw  something  of  him  through  his  Antinoiis  period,  the 
time  of  rich  chestnut  locks,  parted  not  by  a  visible  white  line, 
but  by  a  shadowed  furrow  from  which  they  fell  in  massive 
ripples  to  right  and  left.  In  these  slim  days  he  looked  the 
younger  for  being  rather  below  the  middle  size,  and  though  at 
last  one  perceived  him  contracting  an  indefinable  air  of  self- 
consciousness,  a  slight  exaggeration  of  the  facial  movements, 
the  attitudes,  the  little  tricks,  and  the  romance  in  shirt-collars, 
which  must  be  expected  from  one  who,  in  spite  of  his  knowl- 
edge, was  so  exceedingly  young,  it  was  impossible  to  say  that 
he  was  making  any  great  mistake  about  himself.  He  was 
only  undergoing  one'  form  of  a  common  moral  disease :  being 
strongly  mirrored  for  himself  in  the  remark  of  others,  he  was 
getting  to  see  his  real  characteristics  as  a  dramatic  part,  a  type 
to  which  his  doings  were  always  in  correspondence.  Owing  to 
my  absence  on  travel  and  to  other  causes  I  had  lost  sight  of 
him  for  several  years,  but  such  a  separation  between  two  who 
have  not  missed  each  other  seems  in  this  busy  century  only  a 


"80  YOUNG!"  103 

pleasant  reason,  when  they  happen  to  meet  again  in  some  old 
accustomed  haunt,  for  the  one  who  has  stayed  at  home  to  be 
more  communicative  about  himself  than  he  can  well  be  to  those 
who  have  all  along  been  in  his  neighborhood.  He  had  married 
in  the  interval,  and  as  if  to  keep  up  his  surprising  youthful- 
ness  in  all  relations,  he  had  taken  a  wife  considerably  older 
than  himself.  It  would  probably  have  seemed  to  him  a  dis- 
turbing inversion  of  the  natural  order  that  any  one  very  near 
to  him  should  have  been  younger  than  he,  except  his  own  chil- 
dren who,  however  young,  would  not  necessarily  hinder  the 
normal  surprise  at  the  youthfulness  of  their  father.  And  if 
my  glance  had  revealed  my  impression  on  first  seeing  him 
again,  he  might  have  received  a  rather  disagreeable  shock, 
which  was  far  from  my  intention.  My  mind,  having  retained 
a  very  exact  image  of  his  former  appearance,  took  note  of  un- 
mistakable changes  such  as  a  painter  would  certainly  not  have 
made  by  way  of  flattering  his  subject.  He  had  lost  his  slim- 
ness,  and  that  curved  solidity  which  might  have  adorned  a 
taller  man  was  a  rather  sarcastic  threat  to  his  short  figure. 
The  English  branch  of  the  Teutonic  race  does  not  produce 
many  fat  youths,  and  I  have  even  heard  an  American  lady  say 
that  she  was  much  "  disappointed  "  at  the  moderate  number 
and  size  of  our  fat  men,  considering  their  reputation  in  the 
United  States ;  hence  a  stranger  would  now  have  been  apt  to 
remark  that  Ganymede  was  unusually  plump  for  a  distin- 
guished writer,  rather  than  unusually  young.  But  how  was 
he  to  know  this?  Many  long-standing  prepossessions  are  as 
hard  to  be  corrected  as  a  long-standing  mispronunciation, 
against  which  the  direct  experience  of  eye  and  ear  is  often 
powerless.  And  I  could  perceive  that  Ganymede's  inwrought 
sense  of  his  surprising  youthfulness  had  been  stronger  than  the 
superficial  reckoning  of  his  years  and  the  merely  optical  phe- 
nomena of  the  looking-glass.  He  now  held  a  post  under  Gov- 
ernment, and  not  only  saw,  like  most  subordinate  function- 
aries, how  ill  everything  was  managed,  but  also  what  were  the 
changes  that  a  high  constructive  ability  would  dictate;  and  in 
mentioning  to  me  his  own  speeches  and  other  efforts  toward 
propagating  reformatory  views  in  his  department,  he  concluded 
by  changing  his  tone  to  a  sentimental  head  voice  and  saving — 


104  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

"But  I  am  so  young;  people  object  to  any  prominence  on 
my  part ;  I  can  only  get  myself  heard  anonymously,  and  when 
some  attention  has  been  drawn  the  name  is  sure  to  creep  out. 
The  writer  is  known  to  be  young,  and  things  are  none  the  for- 
warder." 

"  Well, "  said  I,  "  youth  seems  the  only  drawback  that  is 
sure  to  diminish.  You  and  I  have  seven  years  less  of  it  than 
when  we  last  met. " 

"Ah?"  returned  Ganymede,  as  lightly  as  possible,  at  the 
same  time  casting  an  observant  glance  over  me,  as  if  he  were 
marking  the  effect  of  seven  years  on  a  person  who  had  prob- 
ably begun  life  with  an  old  look,  and  even  as  an  infant  had 
given  his  countenance  to  that  significant  doctrine,  the  trans- 
migration of  ancient  souls  into  modern  bodies. 

I  left  him  on  that  occasion  without  any  melancholy  forecast 
that  his  illusion  would  be  suddenly  or  painfully  broken  up. 
I  saw  that  he  was  well  victualled  and  defended  against  a  ten 
years'  siege  from  ruthless  facts ;  and  in  the  course  of  time  ob- 
servation convinced  me  that  his  resistance  received  consider- 
able aid  from  without.  Each  of  his  written  productions,  as  it 
came  out,  was  still  commented  on  as  the  work  of  a  very  young 
man.  One  critic,  finding  that  he  wanted  solidity,  charitably 
referred  to  his  youth  as  an  excuse.  Another,  dazzled  by  his 
brilliancy,  seemed  to  regard  his  youth  as  so  wondrous  that  all 
authors  appeared  decrepit  by  comparison,  and  their  style  such 
as  might  be  looked  for  from  gentlemen  of  the  old  school.  Able 
pens  (according  to  a  familiar  metaphor)  appeared  to  shake 
their  heads  good-humoredly,  implying  that  Ganymede's  cru- 
dities were  pardonable  in  one  so  exceedingly  young.  Such 
unanimity  amid  diversity,  which  a  distant  posterity  might  take 
for  evidence  that  on  the  point  of  age  at  least  there  could  have 
been  no  mistake,  was  not  really  more  difficult  to  account  for 
than  the  prevalence  of  cotton  in  our  fabrics.  Ganymede  had 
been  first  introduced  into  the  writing  world  as  remarkably 
young,  and  it  was  no  exceptional  consequence  that  the  first 
deposit  of  information  about  him  held  its  ground  against 
facts  which,  however  open  to  observation,  were  not  necessarily 
thought  of.  It  is  not  so  easy,  with  our  rates  and  taxes  and 
need  for  economy  in  all  directions,  to  cast  away  an  epithet  or 


"80  YOUNG!"  105 

remark  that  turns  up  cheaply,  and  to  go  in  expensive  search 
after  more  genuine  substitutes.  There  is  high  Homeric  prec- 
edent for  keeping  fast  hold  of  an  epithet  under  all  changes 
of  circumstance,  and  so  the  precocious  author  of  the  "  Com- 
parative Estimate  "  heard  the  echoes  repeating  "  Young  Gany- 
mede "  when  an  illiterate  beholder  at  a  railway  station  would 
have  given  him  forty  years  at  least.  Besides,  important  elders, 
sachems  of  the  clubs  and  public  meetings,  had  a  genuine 
opinion  of  him  as  young  enough  to  be  checked  for  speech  on 
subjects  which  they  had  spoken  mistakenly  about  when  he  was 
in  his  cradle;  and  then,  the  midway  parting  of  his  crisp  hair, 
not  common  among  English  committee-men,  formed  a  presump- 
tion against  the  ripeness  of  his  judgment  which  nothing  but  a 
speedy  baldness  could  have  removed. 

It  is  but  fair  to  mention  all  these  outward  confirmations  of 
Ganymede's  illusion,  which  shows  no  signs  of  leaving  him.  It 
is  true  that  he  no  longer  hears  expressions  of  surprise  at  his 
youthf ulness,  on  a  first  introduction  to  an  admiring  reader ; 
but  this  sort  of  external  evidence  has  becomo  an  unnecessary 
crutch  to  his  habitual  inward  persuasion.  His  manners,  his 
costume,  his  suppositions  of  the  impression  he  makes  on  others, 
have  all  their  former  correspondence  with  the  dramatic  part 
of  the  young  genius.  As  to  the  incongruity  of  his  contour 
and  other  little  accidents  of  physique,  he  is  probably  no  more 
aware  that  they  will  affect  others  as  incongruities  than  Ar- 
mida  is  conscious  how  much  her  rouge  provokes  our  notice 
of  her  wrinkles,  and  causes  us  to  mention  sarcastically  that 
motherly  age  which  we  should  otherwise  regard  with  affection- 
ate reverence. 

But  let  us  be  just  enough  to  admit  that  there  may  be  old- 
young  coxcombs  as  well  as  old-young  coquettes. 


XIII. 

HOW  WE   COME  TO   GIVE  OURSELVES  FALSE  TES- 
TIMONIALS,   AND   BELIEVE   IN   THEM. 

IT  is  my  way  when  I  observe  any  instance  of  folly,  any 
queer  habit,  any  absurd  illusion,  straightway  to  look  for  some- 
thing of  the  same  type  in  myself,  feeling  sure  that  amid 
all  differences  there  will  be  a  certain  correspondence;  just  as 
there  is  more  or  less  correspondence  in  the  natural  history 
even  of  continents  widely  apart,  and  of  islands  in  opposite 
zones.  No  doubt  men's  minds  differ  in  what  we  may  call 
their  climate  or  share  of  solar  energy,  and  a  feeling  or  tendency 
which  is  comparable  to  a  panther  in  one  may  have  no  more 
imposing  aspect  than  that  of  a  weasel  in  another :  some  are 
like  a  tropical  habitat  in  which  the  very  ferns  cast  a  mighty 
shadow,  and  the  grasses  are  a  dry  ocean  in  which  a  hunter 
may  be  submerged :  others  like  the  chilly  latitudes  in  which 
your  forest-tree,  fit  elsewhere  to  prop  a  mine,  is  a  pretty  min- 
iature suitable  for  fancy  potting.  The  eccentric  man  might 
be  typified  by  the  Australian  fauna,  refuting  half  our  judi- 
cious assumptions  of  what  nature  allows.  Still,  whether  fate 
commanded  us  to  thatch  our  persons  among  the  Eskimos  or  to 
choose  the  latest  thing  in  tattooing  among  the  Polynesian  isles, 
our  precious  guide  Comparison  would  teach  us  in  the  first 
place  by  likeness,  and  our  clew  to  further  knowledge  would  be 
resemblance  to  what  we  already  know.  Hence,  having  a  keen 
interest  in  the  natural  history  of  my  inward  self,  I  pursue  this 
plan  I  have  mentioned  of  using  my  observation  as  a  clew  or 
lantern  by  which  I  detect  small  herbage  or  lurking  life;  or  I 
take  my  neighbor  in  his  least  becoming  tricks  or  efforts  as  an 
opportunity  for  luminous  deduction  concerning  the  figure  the 
human  genus  makes  in  the  specimen  which  I  myself  furnish. 

Introspection  which  starts  with  the  purpose  of  finding  out 


SOW   WE  GIVE  FALSE  TESTIMONIALS.  107 

one's  own  absurdities  is  not  likely  to  be  very  mischievous,  yet 
of  course  it  is  not  free  from  dangers  any  more  than  breathing 
is,  or  the  other  functions  that  keep  us  alive  and  active.  To 
judge  of  others  by  one's  self  is  in  its  most  innocent  meaning 
the  briefest  expression  for  our  only  method  of  knowing  man- 
kind ;  yet,  we  perceive,  it  has  come  to  mean  in  many  cases  eith- 
er the  vulgar  mistake  which  reduces  every  man's  value  to  the 
very  low  figure  at  which  the  valuer  himself  happens  to  stand ; 
or  else,  the  amiable  illusion  of  the  higher  nature  misled  by  a 
too  generous  construction  of  the  lower.  One  cannot  give  a 
recipe  for  wise  judgment :  it  resembles  appropriate  muscular 
action,  which  is  attained  by  the  myriad  lessons  in  nicety  of 
balance  and  of  aim  that  only  practice  can  give.  The  danger 
of  the  inverse  procedure,  judging  of  self  by  what  one  observes 
in  others,  if  it  is  carried  on  with  much  impartiality  and  keen- 
ness of  discernment,  is  that  it  has  a  laming  effect,  enfeebling 
the  energies  of  indignation  and  scorn,  which  are  the  proper 
scourges  of  wrong-doing  and  meanness,  and  which  should  con- 
tinually feed  the  wholesome  restraining  power  of  public  opin- 
ion. I  respect  the  horsewhip1  when  applied  to  the  back  of 
Cruelty,  and  think  that  he  who  applies  it  is  a  more  perfect 
human  being  because  his  outleap  of  indignation  is  not  checked 
by  a  too  curious  reflection  on  the  nature  of  guilt — a  more  per- 
fect human  being  because  he  more  completely  incorporates  the 
best  social  life  of  the  race,  which  can  never  be  constituted  by 
ideas  that  nullify  action.  This  is  the  essence  of  Dante's  sen- 
timent (it  is  painful  to  think  that  he  applies  it  very  cruelly)— 

"E  cortesia  fu,  lui  esser  villano"  ' — 

and  it  is  undeniable  that  a  too  intense  consciousness  of  one's 
kinship  with  all  frailties  and  vices  undermines  the  active 
heroism  which  battles  against  wrong. 

But  certainly  nature  has  taken  care  that  this  danger  should 
not  at  present  be  very  threatening.  One  could  not  fairly  de- 
scribe the  generality  of  one's  neighbors  as  too  lucidly  aware 
of  manifesting  in  their  own  persons  the  weaknesses  which  they 
observe  in  the  rest  of  her  Majesty's  subjects;  on  the  contrary, 

1  Inferno  xxxiii.  150. 


108  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

a  hasty  conclusion  as  to  schemes  of  Providence  might  lead  to 
the  supposition  that  one  man  was  intended  to  correct  another 
by  being  most  intolerant  of  the  ugly  quality  or  trick  which  he 
himself  possesses.  Doubtless  philosophers  will  be  able  to 
explain  how  it  must  necessarily  be  so,  but  pending  the  full 
extension  of  the  a  priori  method,  which  will  show  that  only 
blockheads  could  expect  anything  to  be  otherwise,  it  does  seem 
surprising  that  Heloisa  should  be  disgusted  at  Laura's  attempts 
to  disguise  her  age,  attempts  which  she  recognizes  so  thorough- 
ly because  they  enter  into  her  own  practice ;  that  Semper,  who 
often  responds  at  public  dinners  and  proposes  resolutions  on 
platforms,  though  he  has  a  trying  gestation  of  every  speech 
and  a  bad  time  for  himself  and  others  at  every  delivery,  should 
yet  remark  pitilessly  on  the  folly  of  precisely  the  same  course 
of  action  in  Ubique ;  that  Aliquis,  who  lets  no  attack  on  him- 
self pass  unnoticed,  and  for  every  handful  of  gravel  against  his 
windows  sends  a  stone  in  reply,  should  deplore  the  ill-advised 
retorts  of  Quispiam,  who  does  not  perceive  that  to  show  one- 
self angry  with  an  adversary  is  to  gratify  him.  To  be  un- 
aware of  our  own  little  tricks,  of  manner  or  our  own  mental 
blemishes  and  excesses  is  a  comprehensible  unconsciousness ; 
the  puzzling  fact  is  that  people  should  apparently  take  no  ac- 
count of  their  deliberate  actions,  and  should  expect  them  to  be 
equally  ignored  by  others.  It  is  an  inversion  of  the  accepted 
order :  there  it  is  the  phrases  that  are  official  and  the  conduct 
or  privately  manifested  sentiment  that  is  taken  to  be  real; 
here  it  seems  that  the  practice  is  taken  to  be  official  and  en- 
tirely nullified  by  the  verbal  representation  which  contradicts 
it.  The  thief  making  a  vow  to  heaven  of  full  restitution  and 
whispering  some  reservations,  expecting  to  cheat  Omniscience 
by  an  "aside,"  is  hardly  more  ludicrous  than  the  many  ladies 
and  gentlemen  who  have  more  belief,  and  expect  others  to 
have  it,  in  their  own  statement  about  their  habitual  doings 
than  in  the  contradictory  fact  which  is  patent  in  the  daylight. 
One  reason  of  the  absurdity  is  that  we  are  led  by  a  tradition 
about  ourselves,  so  that  long  after  a  man  has  practically  de- 
parted from  a  rule  or  principle,  he  continues  innocently  to  state 
it  as  a  true  description  of  his  practice — just  as  he  has  a  long 
tradition  that  he  is  not  an  old  gentleman,  and  is  startled  when 


HOW  WE  GIVE  FALSE  TESTIMONIALS.  109 

he  is  seventy  at  overhearing  himself  called  by  an  epithet 
which  he  has  only  applied  to  others. 

"  A  person  with  your  tendency  of  constitution  should  take 
as  little  sugar  as  possible, "  said  Pilulus  to  Bovis  somewhere 
in  the  darker  decades  of  this  century.  "  It  has  made  a  great 
difference  to  Avis  since  he  took  my  advice  in  that  matter :  he 
used  to  consume  half  a  pound  a  day." 

"  God  bless  me !  "  cries  Bovis.  "  I  take  very  little  sugar 
myself." 

"  Twenty-six  large  lumps  every  day  of  your  life,  Mr.  Bovis, " 
says  his  wife. 

"  No  such  thing !  "  exclaims  Bovis. 

"  You  drop  them  into  your  tea,  coffee,  and  whiskey  your- 
self, my  dear,  and  I  count  them." 

"Nonsense!"  laughs  Bovis,  turning  to  Pilulus,  that  they 
may  exchange  a  glance  of  mutual  amusement  at  a  woman' s  in- 
accuracy. 

But  she  happened  to  be  right.  Bovis  had  never  said  in- 
wardly that  he  would  take  a  large  allowance  of  sugar,  and  he 
had  the  tradition  about  himself  that  he  was  a  man  of  the  most 
moderate  habits ;  hence,  with  this  conviction,  he  was  naturally 
disgusted  at  the  saccharine  excesses  of  Avis. 

I  have  sometimes  .thought  that  this  facility  of  men  in  believ- 
ing that  they  are  still  what  they  once  meant  to  be — this  undis- 
turbed appropriation  of  a  traditional  character  which  is  often 
but  a  melancholy  relic  of  early  resolutions,  like  the  worn  and 
soiled  testimonial  to  soberness  and  honesty  carried  in  the 
pocket  of  a  tippler  whom  the  need  of  a  dram  has  driven  into 
peculation — may  sometimes  diminish  the  turpitude  of  what 
seems  a  flat,  barefaced  falsehood.  It  is  notorious  that  a  man 
may  go  on  uttering  false  assertions  about  his  own  acts  till  he 
at  last  believes  in  them :  is  it  not  possible  that  sometimes  in 
the  very  first  utterance  there  may  be  a  shade  of  creed-reciting 
belief,  a  reproduction  of  a  traditional  self  which  is  clung  to 
against  all  evidence?  There  is  no  knowing  all  the  disguises 
of  the  lying  serpent. 

When  we  come  to  examine  in  detail  what  is  the  sane  mind 
in  the  sane  body,  the  final  test  of  completeness  seems  to  be 
a  security  of  distinction  between  what  we  have  professed  and 


110  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

what  we  have  done ;  what  we  have  aimed  at  and  what  we 
have  achieved ;  what  we  have  invented  and  what  we  have  wit- 
nessed or  had  evidenced  to  us;  what  we  think  and  feel  in  the 
present  and  what  we  thought  and  felt  in  the  past. 

I  know  that  there  is  a  common  prejudice  which  regards  the 
habitual  confusion  of  now  and  then,  of  it  was  and  it  is,  of  it 
seemed  so  and  I  should  like  it  to  be  so,  as  a  mark  of  high  imag- 
inative endowment,  while  the  power  of  precise  statement  and 
description  is  rated  lower,  as  the  attitude  of  an  every -day  pro- 
saic mind.  High  imagination  is  often  assigned  or  claimed  as 
if  it  were  a  ready  activity  in  fabricating  extravagances  such  as 
are  presented  by  fevered  dreams,  or  as  if  its  possessors  were 
in  that  state  of  inability  to  give  credible  testimony  which 
would  warrant  their  exclusion  from  the  class  of  acceptable 
witnesses  in  a  court  of  justice;  so  that  a  creative  genius  might 
fairly  be  subjected  to  the  disability  which  some  laws  have 
stamped  on  dicers,  slaves,  and  other  classes  whose  position  was 
held  perverting  to  their  sense  of  social  responsibility. 

This  endowment  of  mental  confusion  is  often  boasted  of  by 
persons  whose  imaginativeness  would  not  otherwise  be  known, 
unless  it  were  by  the  slow  process  of  detecting  that  their  de- 
scriptions and  narratives  were  not  to  be  trusted.  Callista  is 
always  ready  to  testify  of  herself  that  she  is  an  imaginative 
person,  and  sometimes  adds  in  illustration,  that  if  she  had 
taken  a  walk  and  seen  an  old  heap  of  stones  on  her  way,  the 
account  she  would  give  on  returning  would  include  many  pleas- 
ing particulars  of  her  own  invention,  transforming  the  simple 
heap  into  an  interesting  castellated  ruin.  This  creative  free- 
dom is  all  very  well  in  the  right  place,  but  before  I  can  grant 
it  to  be  a  sign  of  unusual  mental  power,  I  must  inquire  wheth- 
er, on  being  requested  to  give  a  precise  description  of  what 
she  saw,  she  would  be  able  to  cast  aside  her  arbitrary  combi- 
nations and  recover  the  objects  she  really  perceived  so  as  to 
make  them  recognizable  by  another  person  who  passed  the 
same  way.  Otherwise  her  glorifying  imagination  is  not  an 
addition  to  the  fundamental  power  of  strong,  discerning  per- 
ception, but  a  cheaper  substitute.  And,  in  fact,  I  find  on  lis- 
tening to  Callista' s  conversation,  that  she  has  a  very  lax  con- 
ception even  of  common  objects,  and  an  equally  lax  memory 


HOW  WE  GIVE  FALSE  TESTIMONIALS.  HI 

of  events.  It  seems  of  no  consequence  to  her  whether  she 
shall  say  that  a  stone  is  overgrown  with  moss  or  with  lichen, 
that  a  building  is  of  sandstone  or  of  granite,  that  Meliboeus 
once  forgot  to  put  on  his  cravat  or  that  he  always  appears 
without  it ;  that  everybody  says  so,  or  that  one  stock-broker's 
wife  said  so  yesterday ;  that  Philemon  praised  Euphemia  up 
to  the  skies,  or  that  he  denied  knowing  any  particular  evil  of 
her.  She  is  one  of  those  respectable  witnesses  who  would 
testify  to  the  exact  moment  of  an  apparition,  because  any  de- 
sirable moment  will  be  as  exact  as  another  to  her  remembrance ; 
or  who  would  be  the  most  worthy  to  witness  the  action  of 
spirits  on  slates  and  tables  because  the  action  of  limbs  would 
not  probably  arrest  her  attention.  She  would  describe  the 
surprising  phenomena  exhibited  by  the  powerful  Medium  with 
the  same  freedom  that  she  vaunted  in  relation  to  the  old  heap 
of  stones.  Her  supposed  imaginativeness  is  simply  a  very 
usual  lack  of  discriminating  perception,  accompanied  with  a 
less  usual  activity  of  misrepresentation,  which,  if  it  had  been 
a  little  more  intense,  or  had  been  stimulated  by  circumstance, 
might  have  made  her  a  profuse  writer  unchecked  by  the  troub- 
lesome need  of  veracity. 

These  characteristics  are  the  very  opposite  of  such  as  yield 
a  fine  imagination,  which  is  always  based  on  a  keen  vision,  a 
keen  consciousness  of  what  is,  and  carries  the  store  of  definite 
knowledge  as  material  for  the  construction  of  its  inward  visions. 
"Witness  Dante,  who  is  at  once  the  most  precise  and  homely  in 
his  reproduction  of  actual  objects,  and  the  most  soaringly 
at  large  in  his  imaginative  combinations.  On  a  much  lower 
level  we  distinguish  the  hyperbole  and  rapid  development  in 
descriptions  of  persons  and  events  which  are  lit  up  by  hu- 
morous intention  in  the  speaker — we  distinguish  this  charm- 
ing play  of  intelligence  which  resembles  musical  improvisation 
on  a  given  motive,  where  the  farthest  sweep  of  curve  is 
looped  into  relevancy  by  an  instinctive  method,  from  the  florid 
inaccuracy  or  helpless  exaggeration  which  is  really  something 
commoner  than  the  correct  simplicity  often  depreciated  as 
prosaic. 

Even  if  high  imagination  were  to  be  identified  with  illusion, 
there  would  be  the  same  sort  of  difference  between  the  im- 


112  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

perial  wealth  of  illusion  which  is  informed  by  industrious  sub- 
missive observation  and  the  trumpery  stage-property  illusion 
which  depends  on  the  ill-defined  impressions  gathered  by 
capricious  inclination,  as  there  is  between  a  good  and  a  bad 
picture  of  the  Last  Judgment.  In  both  these  the  subject  is  a 
combination  never  actually  witnessed,  and  in  the  good  picture 
the  general  combiDation  may  be  of  surpassing  boldness;  but 
on  examination  it  is  seen  that  the  separate  elements  have  been 
closely  studied  from  real  objects.  And  even  where  we  find 
the  charm  of  ideal  elevation  with  wrong  drawing  and  fantastic 
color,  the  charm  is  dependent  on  the  selective  sensibility  of 
the  painter  to  certain  real  delicacies  of  form  which  confer  the 
expression  he  longed  to  render ;  for  apart  from  this  basis  of  an 
effect  perceived  in  common,  there  could  be  no  conveyance  of 
aesthetic  meaning  by  the  painter  to  the  beholder.  In  this 
sense  it  is  as  true  to  say  of  Fra  Angelico's  Coronation  of  the 
Virgin,  that  it  has  a  strain  of  reality,  as  to  say  so  of  a  portrait 
by  Eembrandt,  which  also  has  its  strain  of  ideal  elevation  due 
to  Rembrandt's  virile  selective  sensibility. 

To  correct  such  self -flatterers  as  Callista,  it  is  worth  repeat- 
ing that  powerful  imagination  is  not  false  outward  vision, 
but  intense  inward  representation,  and  a  creative  energy  con- 
stantly fed  by  susceptibility  to  the  veriest  minutiae  of  experi- 
ence, which  it  reproduces  and  constructs  in  fresh  and  fresh 
wholes ;  not  the  habitual  confusion  of  provable  fact  with  the 
fictions  of  fancy  and  transient  inclination,  but  a  breadth  of 
ideal  association  which  informs  every  material  object,  every 
incidental  fact  with  far-reaching  memories  and  stored  residues 
of  passion,  bringing  into  new  light  the  less  obvious  relations 
of  human  existence.  The  illusion  to  which  it  is  liable  is  not 
that  of  habitually  taking  duckponds  for  lilied  pools,  but  of 
being  more  or  less  transiently  and  in  varying  degrees  so  ab- 
sorbed in  ideal  vision  as  to  lose  the  consciousness  of  sur- 
rounding objects  or  occurrences;  and  when  that  rapt  condition 
is  past,  the  sane  genius  discriminates  clearly  between  what 
has  been  given  in  this  parenthetic  state  of  excitement,  and 
what  he  has  known,  and  may  count  on,  in  the  ordinary  world 
of  experience.  Dante  seems  to  have  expressed  these  condi- 
tions perfectly  in  that  passage  of  the  Purgatbrio  where,  after 


HOW  WE  GIVE  FALSE  TESTIMONIALS.  113 

a  triple  vision  which  has  made  him  forget  his  surroundings, 
he  says — 

"Quando  1'anima  mia  toni6  di  fuori 
Alle  cose  che  son  fuor  di  lei  vere, 
lo  riconobbi  i  miei  non  falsi  errori." — (c.  xv.) 

He  distinguishes  the  ideal  truth  of  his  entranced  vision  from 
the  series  of  external  facts  to  which  his  consciousness  had  re- 
turned. Isaiah  gives  us  the  date  of  his  vision  in  the  Temple — 
"the  year  that  King  Uzziah  died" — and  if  afterward  the 
mighty-winged  seraphim  were  present  with  him  as  he  trod  the 
street,  he  doubtless  knew  them  for  images  of  memory,  and  did 
not  cry  "  Look !  "  to  the  passers-by. 

Certainly  the  seer,  whether  prophet,  philosopher,  scientific 
discoverer,  or  poet,  may  happen  to  be  rather  mad :  his  powers 
may  have  been  used  up,  like  Don  Quixote's,  in  their  visionary 
or  theoretic  constructions,  so  that  the  reports  of  common 
sense  fail  to  affect  him,  or  the  continuous  strain  of  excitement 
may  have  robbed  his  mind  of  its  elasticity.  It  is  hard  for 
our  frail  mortality  to  carry  the  burden  of  greatness  with 
steady  gait  and  full  alacrity  of  perception.  But  he  is  the 
strongest  seer  who  can  support  the  stress  of  creative  energy 
and  yet  keep  that  sanity  of  expectation  which  consists  in  dis- 
tinguishing, as  Dante  does,  between  the  cose  che  son  vere  out- 
side the  individual  mind,  and  the  non  falsi  errori  which  are 
the  revelations  of  true  imaginative  power. 
8 


XIV. 
THE   TOO   READY   WRITER. 

ONE  who  talks  too  much,  hindering  the  rest  of  the  company 
from  taking  their  turn,  and  apparently  seeing  no  reason  why 
they  should  not  rather  desire  to  know  his  opinion  or  experi- 
ence in  relation  to  all  subjects,  or  at  least  to  renounce  the  dis- 
cussion of  any  topic  where  he  can  make  no  figure,  has  never 
been  praised  for  this  industrious  monopoly  of  work  which 
others  would  willingly  have  shared  in.  However  various  and 
brilliant  his  talk  may  be,  we  suspect  him  of  impoverishing  us 
by  excluding  the  contributions  of  other  minds,  which  attract 
our  curiosity  the  more  because  he  has  shut  them  up  in  silence. 
Besides,  -we  get  tired  of  a  "  manner "  in  conversation  as  in 
painting,  when  one  theme  after  another  is  treated  with  the 
same  lines  and  touches.  I  begin  with  a  liking  for  an  estima- 
ble master,  but  by  the  time  he  has  stretched  his  interpretation 
of  the  world  unbrokenly  along  a  palatial  gallery,  I  have  had 
what  the  cautious  Scotch  mind  would  call  "  enough  "  of  him. 
There  is  monotony  and  narrowness  already  to  spare  in  my 
own  identity;  what  comes  to  me  from  without  should  be 
larger  and  more  impartial  than  the  judgment  of  any  single  in- 
terpreter. On  this  ground  even  a  modest  person,  without 
power  or  will  to  shine  in  the  conversation,  may  easily  find  the 
predominating  talker  a  nuisance,  while  those  who  are  full  of 
matter  on  special  topics  are  continually  detecting  miserably 
thin  places  in  the  web  of  that  information  which  he  will  not 
desist  from  imparting.  Nobody  that  I  know  of  ever  proposed 
a  testimonial  to  a  man  for  thus  volunteering  the  whole  expense 
of  the  conversation. 

Why  is  there  a  different  standard  of  judgment  with  regard 
to  a  writer  who  plays  much  the  same  part  in  literature  as  the 
excessive  talker  plays  in  what  is  traditionally  called  conversa,- 


THE  TOO  READY  WRITER.  115 

tion?  The  busy  Adrastus,  whose  professional  engagements 
might  seem  more  than  enough  for  the  nervous  energy  of  one 
man,  and  who  yet  finds  time  to  print  essays  on  the  chief  cur- 
rent subjects,  from  the  tri-lingual  inscriptions,  or  the  Idea  of 
the  Infinite  among  the  prehistoric  Lapps,  to  the  Colorado 
beetle  and  the  grape  disease  in  the  south  of  France,  is  gen- 
erally praised  if  not  admired  for  the  breadth  of  his  mental 
range  and  his  gigantic  powers  of  work.  Poor  Theron,  who 
has  some  original  ideas  on  a  subject  to  which  he  has  given 
years  of  research  and  meditation,  has  been  waiting  anxiously 
from  month  to  month  to  see  whether  his  condensed  exposition 
will  find  a  place  in  the  next  advertised  programme,  but  sees 
it,  on  the  contrary,  regularly  excluded,  and  twice  the  space 
he  asked  for  filled  with  the  copious  brew  of  Adrastus,  whose 
name  carries  custom  like  a  celebrated  trademark.  Why  should 
the  eager  haste  to  tell  what  he  thinks  on  the  shortest  no- 
tice, as  if  his  opinion  were  a  needed  preliminary  to  discus- 
sion, get  a  man  the  reputation  of  being  a  conceited  bore  in 
conversation,  when  nobody  blames  the  same  tendency  if  it 
shows  itself  in  print?  The  excessive  talker  can  only  be  in 
one  gathering  at  a  time,  and  there  is  the  comfort  of  thinking 
that  everywhere  else  other  fellow-citizens  who  have  something 
to  say  may  get  a  chance  of  delivering  themselves;  but  the  ex- 
orbitant writer  can  occupy  space  and  spread  over  it  the  more 
or  less  agreeable  flavor  of  his  mind  in  four  "  mediums "  at 
once,  and  on  subjects  taken  from  the  four  winds.  Such  rest- 
less and  versatile  occupants  of  literary  space  and  time  should 
have  lived  earlier  when  the  world  wanted  summaries  of  all 
extant  knowledge,  and  this  knowledge  being  small,  there  was 
the  more  room  for  commentary  and  conjecture.  They  might 
have  played  the  part  of  an  Isidor  of  Seville  or  a  Vincent  of 
Beauvais  brilliantly,  and  the  willingness  to  write  everything 
themselves  would  have  been  strictly  in  place.  In  the  present 
day,  the  busy  retailer  of  other  people's  knowledge  which  he 
has  spoiled  in  the  handling,  the  restless  guesser  and  commen- 
tator, the  importunate  hawker  of  undesirable  superfluities,  the 
everlasting  word-compeller  who  rises  early  in  the  morning  to 
praise  what  the  world  has  already  glorified,  or  makes  himself 
haggard  at  night  in  writing  out  his  dissent  from  what  nobody 


116  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

ever  believed,  is  not  simply  "gratis  anhelans,  multa  agendo 
nihil  agens" — lie  is  an  obstruction.  Like  an  incompetent 
architect  with  too  much  interest  at  his  back,  he  obtrudes  his 
ill-considered  work  where  place  ought  to  have  been  left  to 
better  men. 

Is  it  out  of  the  question  that  we  should  entertain  some 
scruple  about  mixing  our  own  flavor,  as  of  the  too  cheap  and 
insistent  nutmeg,  with  that  of  every  great  writer  and  every 
great  subject? — especially  when  our  flavor  is  all  we  have  to 
givee,  the  matter  or  knowledge  having  been  already  given  by 
somebody  else.  What  if  we  were  only  like  the  Spanish  wine- 
skins which  impress  the  innocent  stranger  with  the  notion 
that  the  Spanish  grape  has  naturally  a  taste  of  leather?  One 
could  wish  that  even  the  greatest  minds  should  leave  some 
themes  unhandled,  or  at  least  leave  us  no  more  than  a  para- 
graph or  two  on  them  to  show  how  well  they  did  in  not  being 
more  lengthy. 

Such  entertainment  of  scruple  can  hardly  be  expected  from 
the  young ;  but  happily  their  readiness  to  mirror  the  universe 
anew  for  the  rest  of  mankind  is  not  encouraged  by  easy  pub- 
licity. In  the  vivacious  Pepin  I  have  often  seen  the  image 
of  my  early  youth,  when  it  seemed  to  me  astonishing  that  the 
philosophers  had  left  so  many  difficulties  unsolved,  and  that 
so  many  great  themes  had  raised  no  great  poet  to  treat  them. 
I  had  an  elated  sense  that  I  should  find  my  brain  full  of  theo- 
retic clews  when  I  look';l  for  them,  and  that  wherever  a  poet 
had  not  done  what  I  expected,  it  was  for  want  of  my  insight. 
Not  knowing  what  had  been  said  about  the  play  of  Romeo 
and  Juliet,  I  felt  myself  capable  of  writing  something  orig- 
inal on  its  blemishes  and  beauties.  In  relation  to  all  subjects 
I  had  a  joyous  consciousness  of  that  ability  which  is  prior  to 
knowledge,  and  of  only  needing  to  apply  myself  in  order  to 
master  any  task — to  conciliate  philosophers  whose  systems 
were  at  present  but  dimly  known  to  me,  to  estimate  foreign 
poets  whom  I  had  not  yet  read,  to  show  up  mistakes  in  an 
historical  monograph  that  roused  my  interest  in  an  epoch 
which  I  had  been  hitherto  ignorant  of,  when  I  should  once 
have  had  time  to  verify  my  views  of  probability  by  looking 
into  an  encyclopaedia.  So  Pepin ;  save  only  that  he  is  indus- 


THE  TOO   READY  WRITER.  117 

trious  while  I  was  idle.  Like  the  astronomer  in  Rasselas,  I 
swayed  the  universe  in  niy  consciousness  without  making  any 
difference  outside  me;  whereas  Pepin,  while  feeling  himself 
powerful  with  the  stars  in  their  courses,  really  raises  some 
dust  here  below.  He  is  no  longer  in  his  spring-tide,  but  hav- 
ing been  always  busy  he  has  been  obliged  to  use  his  first 
impressions  as  if  they  were  deliberate  opinions,  and  to  range 
himself  on  the  corresponding  side  in  ignorance  of  much  that  he 
commits  himself  to ;  so  that  he  retains  some  characteristics  of 
a  comparatively  tender  age,  and  among  them  a  certain  sur- 
prise that  there  have  not  been  more  persons  equal  to  himself. 
Perhaps  it  is  unfortunate  for  him  that  he  early  gained  a  hear- 
ing, or  at  least  a  place  in  print,  and  was  thus  encouraged  in 
acquiring  a  fixed  habit  of  writing,  to  the  exclusion  of  any 
other  bread-winning  pursuit.  He  is  already  to  be  classed  as 
a  "general  writer,"  corresponding  to  the  comprehensive  wants 
of  the  "  general  reader, "  and  with  this  industry  on  his  hands 
it  is  not  enough  for  him  to  keep  up  the  ingenuous  self-reliance 
of  youth :  he  finds  himself  under  an  obligation  to  be  skilled  in 
various  methods  of  seeming  to  know ;  and  having  habitually 
expressed  himself  before  he  was  convinced,  his  interest  in  all 
subjects  is  chiefly  to  ascertain  that  he  has  not  made  a  mistake, 
and  to  feel  his  infallibility  confirmed.  That  impulse  to  de- 
cide, that  vague  sense  of  being  able  to  achieve  the  unattempted, 
that  dream  of  aerial  unlimited  movement  at  will  without  feet 
or  wings,  which  were  once  but  the  joyous  mounting  of  young 
sap,  are  already  taking  shape  as  unalterable  woody  fibre:  the 
impulse  has  hardened  into  "style,"  and  into  a  pattern  of  per- 
emptory sentences;  the  sense  of  ability  in  the  presence  of 
other  men's  failures  is  turning  into  the  official  arrogance  of  one 
who  habitually  issues  directions  which  he  has  never  himself 
been  called  on  to  execute ;  the  dreamy  buoyancy  of  the  strip- 
ling has  taken  on  a  fatal  sort  of  reality  in  written  pretensions 
which  carry  consequences.  He  is  on  the  way  to  become  like 
the  loud-buzzing,  bouncing  Bombus  who  combines  conceited 
illusions  enough  to  supply  several  patients  in  a  lunatic  asylum 
with  the  freedom  to  show  himself  at  large  in  various  forms  of 
print.  If  one  who  takes  himself  for  the  telegraphic  centre  of 
all  American  wires  is  to  be  confined  as  unfit  to  transact  affairs, 


118  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

what  shall  we  say  to  the  man  who  believes  himself  in  posses- 
sion of  the  unexpressed  motives  and  designs  dwelling  in  the 
breasts  of  all  sovereigns  and  all  politicians?  And  I  grieve  to 
think  that  poor  Pepin,  though  less  political,  may  by  and  by 
manifest  a  persuasion  hardly  more  sane,  for  he  is  beginning 
to  explain  people's  writing  by  what  he  does  not  know  about 
them.  Yet  he  was  once  at  the  comparatively  innocent  stage 
which  I  have  confessed  to  be  that  of  my  own  early  astonish- 
ment at  my  powerful  originality ;  and  copying  the  just  humil- 
ity of  the  old  Puritan,  I  may  say,  "  But  for  the  grace  of  dis- 
couragement, this  coxcombry  might  have  been  mine." 

Pepin  made  for  himself  a  necessity  of  writing  (and  getting 
printed)  before  he  had  considered  whether  he  had  the  knowl- 
edge or  belief  that  would  furnish  eligible  matter.  At  first 
perhaps  the  necessity  galled  him  a  little,  but  it  is  now  as  easily 
borne,  nay,  is  as  irrepressible  a  habit  as  the  outpouring  of  in- 
considerate talk.  He  is  gradually  being  condemned  to  have 
no  genuine  impressions,  no  direct  consciousness  of  enjoyment 
or  the  reverse  from  the  quality  of  what  is  before  him ;  his  per- 
ceptions are  continually  arranging  themselves  in  forms  suitable 
to  a  printed  judgment,  and  hence  they  will  often  turn  out  to 
be  as  much  to  the  purpose  if  they  are  written  without  any 
direct  contemplation  of  the  object,  and  are  guided  by  a  few 
external  conditions  which  serve  to  classify  it  for  him.  In  this 
way  he  is  irrevocably  losing  the  faculty  of  accurate  mental 
vision :  having  bound  himself  to  express  judgments  which  will 
satisfy  some  other  demands  than  that  of  veracity,  he  has 
blunted  his  perceptions  by  continual  preoccupation.  We  can- 
not command  veracity  at  will :  the  power  of  seeing  and  report- 
ing truly  is  a  form  of  health  that  has  to  be  delicately  guarded, 
and  as  an  ancient  Rabbi  has  solemnly  said,  "  The  penalty  of 
untruth  is  untruth."  But  Pepin  is  only  a  mild  example  of 
the  fact  that  incessant  writing  with  a  view  to  printing  carries 
internal  consequences  which  have  often  the  nature  of  disease. 
And  however  unpractical  it  may  be  held  to  consider  whether 
we  have  anything  to  print  which  it  is  good  for  the  world  to 
read,  or  which  has  not  been  better  said  before,  it  will  perhaps 
be  allowed  to  be  worth  considering  what  effect  the  printing 
may  have  on  ourselves.  Clearly  there  is  a  sort  of  writing 


THE  TOO  READY  WRITER.  110 

which  helps  to  keep  the  writer  in  a  ridiculously  contented 
ignorance ;  raising  in  him  continually  the  sense  of  having  de- 
livered himself  effectively,  so  that  the  acquirement  of  more 
thorough  knowledge  seems  as  superfluous  as  the  purchase  of 
costume  for  a  past  occasion.  He  has  invested  his  vanity 
(perhaps  his  hope  of  income)  in  his  own  shallownesses  and  mis- 
takes, and  must  desire  their  prosperity.  Like  the  professional 
prophet,  he  learns  to  be  glad  of  the  harm  that  keeps  up  his 
credit,  and  to  be  sorry  for  the  good  that  contradicts  him.  It 
is  hard  enough  for  any  of  us,  amid  the  changing  winds  of  for- 
tune and  the  hurly-burly  of  events,  to  keep  quite  clear  of  a 
gladness  which  is  another's  calamity ;  but  one  may  choose  not 
to  enter  on  a  course  which  will  turn  such  gladness  into  a  fixed 
habit  of  mind,  committing  ourselves  to  be  continually  pleased 
that  others  should  appear  to  be  wrong  in  order  that  we  may 
have  the  air  of  being  right. 

In  some  cases,  perhaps,  it  might  be  urged  that  Pepin  has 
remained  the  more  self-contented  because  he  has  not  written 
everything  he  believed  himself  capable  of.  He  once  asked 
me  to  read  a  sort  of  programme  of  the  species  of  romance 
which  he  should  think  it  worth  while  to  write — a  species 
which  he  contrasted  in  strong  terms  with  the  productions  of 
illustrious  but  overrated  authors  in  this  branch.  Pepin's 
romance  was  to  present  the  splendors  of  the  Eoman  Empire  at 
the  culmination  of  its  grandeur,  when  decadence  was  spiritu- 
ally but  not  visibly  imminent :  it  was  to  show  the  workings  of 
human  passion  in  the  most  pregnant  and  exalted  of  human 
circumstances,  the  designs  of  statesmen,  the  interfusion  of 
philosophies,  the  rural  relaxation  and  converse  of  immortal 
poets,  the  majestic  triumphs  of  warriors,  the  mingling  of  the 
quaint  and  sublime  in  religious  ceremony,  the  gorgeous  de- 
lirium of  gladiatorial  shows,  and  under  all  the  secretly  work- 
ing leaven  of  Christianity.  Such  a  romance  would  not  call 
the  attention  of  society  to  the  dialect  of  stable-boys,  the  low 
habits  of  rustics,  the  vulgarity  of  small  schoolmasters,  the 
manners  of  men  in  livery,  or  to  any  other  form  of  uneducated 
talk,  and  sentiments :  its  characters  would  have  virtues  and 
vices  alike  on  the  grand  scale,  and  would  express  themselves 
in  an  English  representing  the  discourse  of  the  most  powerful 


1->0  TIIKOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

minds  in  the  best  Latin,  or  possibly  Greek,  when  there  oc- 
curred a  scene  with  a  Greek  philosopher  on  a  visit  to  Rome 
or  resident  there  as  a  teacher.  In  this  way  Pepin  would  do 
in  fiction  what  had  never  been  done  before :  something  not  at 
all  like  "  Rienzi  "  or  "  Notre  Dame  de  Paris,"  or  any  other  at- 
tempt of  that  kind;  but  something  at  once  more  penetrating 
and  more  magnificent,  more  passionate  and  more  philosophical, 
more  panoramic  yet  more  select :  something  that  would  pre- 
sent a  conception  of  a  gigantic  period ;  in  short,  something 
truly  Roman  and  world-historical. 

When  Pepin  gave  me  this  programme  to  read  he  was  much 
younger  than  at  present.  Some  slight  success  in  another  vein 
diverted  him  from  the  production  of  panoramic  and  select 
romance,  and  the  experience  of  not  having  tried  to  carry  out 
his  programme  has  naturally  made  him  more  biting  and  sar- 
castic on  the  failures  of  those  who  have  actually  written 
romances  without  apparently  having  had  a  glimpse  of  a  con- 
ception equal  to  his.  Indeed,  I  am  often  comparing  his  rather 
touchingly  inflated  na'ivete,  as  of  a  small  young  person  walk- 
ing on  tiptoe  while  he  is  talking  of  elevated  things,  at  the 
time  when  he  felt  himself  the  author  of  that  unwritten  ro- 
mance, with  his  present  epigrammatic  curtness  and  affecta- 
tion of  power  kept  strictly  in  reserve.  His  paragraphs  now 
seem  to  have  a  bitter  smile  in  them,  from  the  consciousness 
of  a  mind  too  penetrating  to  accept  any  other  man's  ideas, 
and  too  equally  competent  in  all  directions  to  seclude  his 
power  in  any  one  form  of  creation,  but  rather  fitted  to  hang 
over  them  all  as  a  lamp  of  guidance  to  the  stumblers  below. 
You  perceive  how  proud  he  is  of  not  being  indebted  to  any 
writer:  even  with  the  dead  he  is  on  the  creditor's  side,  for  he 
is  doing  them  the  service  of  letting  the  world  know  what  they 
meant  better  than  those  poor  pre-Pepinians  themselves  had 
any  means  of  doing,  and  he  treats  the  mighty  shades  very- 
cavalierly. 

Is  this  fellow-citizen  of  ours,  considered  simply  in  the  light 
of  a  baptized  Christian  and  tax-paying  Englishman,  really  as 
madly  conceited,  as  empty  of  reverential  feeling,  as  unveracious 
and  careless  of  justice,  as  full  of  catch-penny  devices  and 
stagey  attitudinizing  as  on  examination  his  writing  shows 


THE  TOO   READY  WRITER.  121 

itself  to  be?  By  no  means.  He  has  arrived  at  his  present 
pass  in  "  the  literary  calling  "  through  the  sell-imposed  obliga- 
tion to  give  himself  a  manner  which  would  convey  the  impres- 
sion of  superior  knowledge  and  ability.  He  is  much  worthier 
and  more  admirable  than  his  written  productions,  because  the 
moral  aspects  exhibited  in  his  writing  are  felt  to  be  ridiculous 
or  disgraceful  in  the  personal  relations  of  life.  In  blaming 
Pepin's  writing  we  are  accusing  the  public  conscience,  which 
is  so  lax  and  ill  informed  on  the  momentous  bearings  of  author- 
ship that  it  sanctions  the  total  absence  of  scruple  in  undertak- 
ing and  prosecuting  what  should  be  the  best  warranted  of 
vocations. 

Hence  I  still  accept  friendly  relations  with  Pepin,  for  he 
has  much  private  amiability,  and  though  he  probably  thinks 
of  me  as  a  man  of  slender  talents,  without  rapidity  of  coup 
d'ceil  and  with  no  compensatory  penetration,  he  meets  me 
very  cordially,  and  would  not,  I  am  sure,  willingly  pain  me 
in  conversation  by  crudely  declaring  his  low  estimate  of  my 
capacity.  Yet  I  have  often  known  him  to  insult  my  betters 
and  contribute  (perhaps  unreflectingly)  to  encourage  injurious 
conceptions  of  them — but  that  was  done  in  the  course  of  his 
professional  writing,  and  the  public  conscience  still  leaves  such 
writing  nearly  on  the  level  of  the  Merry- Andrew's  dress, 
which  permits  an  impudent  deportment  and  extraordinary 
gambols  to  one  who  in  his  ordinary  clothing  shows  himself  the 
decent  father  of  a  family. 


XV. 
DISEASES   OF   SMALL   AUTHORSHIP. 

PARTICULAR  callings,  it  is  known,  encourage  particular  dis- 
eases. There  is  a  painter's  colic :  the  Sheffield  grinder  falls 
a  victim  to  the  inhalation  of  steel  dust :  clergymen,  so  often 
have  a  certain  kind  of  sore  throat  that  this  otherwise  secular 
ailment  gets  named  after  them.  And  perhaps,  if  we  were  to 
inquire,  we  should  find  a  similar  relation  between  certain  moral 
ailments  and  these  various  occupations,  though  here  in  the 
case  of  clergymen  there  would  be  specific  differences :  the  poor 
curate,  equally  with  the  rector,  is  liable  to  clergyman's  sore 
throat,  but  he  would  probably  be  found  free  from  the  chronic 
moral  ailments  encouraged  by  the  possession  of  glebe  and 
those  higher  chances  of  preferment  which  follow  on  having  a 
good  position  already.  On  the  other  hand,  the  poor  curate 
might  have  severe  attacks  of  calculating  expectancy  concern- 
ing parishioners'  turkeys,  cheeses,  and  fat  geese,  or  of  uneasy 
rivalry  for  the  donations  of  clerical  charities. 

Authors  are  so  miscellaneous  a  class  that  their  personified 
diseases,  physical  and  moral,  might  include  the  whole  pro- 
cession of  human  disorders,  led  by  dyspepsia  and  ending  in 
madness — the  awful  Dumb  Show  of  a  world-historic  tragedy. 
Take  a  large  enough  area  of  human  life  and  all  comedy  melts 
into  tragedy,  like  the  Fool's  part  by  the  side  of  Lear.  The 
chief  scenes  get  filled  with  erring  heroes,  guileful  usurpers, 
persecuted  discoverers,  dying  deliverers :  everywhere  the  pro- 
tagonist has  a  part  pregnant  with  doom.  The  comedy  sinks 
to  an  accessory,  and  if  there  are  loud  laughs  they  seem  a  con- 
vulsive transition  from  sobs;  or  if  the  comedy  is  touched  with 
a  gentle  lovingness,  the  panoramic  scene  is  one  where 

"Sadness  is  a  kind  of  mirth 
So  mingled  as  if  mirth  did  make  us  sad 
And  sadness  merry." ' 

1  Two  Noble  Kinsmen. 


DISEASES  OF  SMALL  AUTHORSHIP  123 

But  I  did  not  set  out  on  the  wide  survey  that  would  carry 
me  into  tragedy,  and  in  fact  had  nothing  more  serious  in  my 
mind  than  certain  small  chronic  ailments  that  come  of  small 
authorship.  I  was  thinking  principally  of  Vorticella,  who 
flourished  in  my  youth  not  only  as  a  portly  lady  walking  in 
silk  attire,  but  also  as  the  authoress  of  a  book  entitled  "  The 
Channel  Islands,  with  Notes  and  an  Appendix."  I  would  by 
no  means  make  it  a  reproach  to  her  that  she  wrote  no  more 
than  one  book ;  on  the  contrary,  her  stopping  there  seems  to 
me  a  laudable  example.  What  one  would  have  wished,  after 
experience,  was  that  she  had  refrained  from  producing  even 
that  single  volume,  and  thus  from  giving  her  self-importance 
a  troublesome  kind  of  double  incorporation  which  became 
oppressive  to  her  acquaintances,  and  set  up  in  herself  one  of 
those  slight  chronic  forms  of  disease  to  which  I  have  just  re- 
ferred. She  lived  in  the  considerable  provincial  town  of 
Pumpiter,  which  had  its  own  newspaper  press,  with  the  usual 
divisions  of  political  partisanship  and  the  usual  varieties  of 
literary  criticism — the  florid  and  allusive,  the  staccato  and 
peremptory,  the  clairvoyant  and  prophetic,  the  safe  and  pat- 
tern-phrased, or  what  one  might  call  "the  many-a-long-day 
style." 

Vorticella  being  the  wife  of  an  important  townsman  had 
naturally  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  "  The  Channel  Islands  " 
reviewed  by  all  the  organs  of  Pumpiter  opinion,  and  their 
articles  or  paragraphs  held  as  naturally  the  opening  pages  in 
the  elegantly  bound  album  prepared  by  her  for  the  reception 
of  "critical  opinions."  This  ornamental  volume  lay  on  a  spe- 
cial table  in  her  drawing-room  close  to  the  still  more  gor- 
geously bound  work  of  which  it  was  the  significant  effect,  and 
every  guest  was  allowed  the  privilege  of  reading  what  had 
been  said  of  the  authoress  and  her  work  in  the  "Pumpiter 
Gazette  and  Literary  Watchman,"  the  "  Pumpshire  Post, "  the 
"Church  Clock,"  the  "Independent  Monitor,"  and  the  lively 
but  judicious  publication  known  as  the  "  Medley  Pie  " ;  to  be 
followed  up,  if  he  chose,  by  the  instructive  perusal  of  the 
strikingly  confirmatory  judgments,  sometimes  concurrent  in 
the  very  phrases,  of  journals  from  the  most  distant  counties; 
as  the  "Latchgate  Argus,"  the  "Penllwy  Universe,"  the 


124  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

"  Cockaleekie   Advertiser, "   the  "  Goodwin  Sands   Opinion, " 
and  the  "  Land's  End  Times." 

I  had  friends  in  Pumpiter  and  occasionally  paid  a  long  visit 
there.  When  I  called  on  Vorticella,  who  had  a  cousinship 
with  my  hosts,  she  had  to  excuse  herself  because  a  message 
claimed  her  attention  for  eight  or  ten  minutes,  and  handing 
me  the  album  of  critical  opinions  said,  with  a  certain  em- 
phasis which,  considering  my  youth,  was  highly  compliment- 
ary, that  she  would  really  like  me  to  read  what  I  should  find 
there.  This  seemed  a  permissive  politeness  which  I  could  not 
feel  to  be  an  oppression,  and  I  ran  my  eyes  over  the  dozen 
pages,  each  with  a  strip  or  islet  of  newspaper  in  the  centre, 
with  that  freedom  of  mind  (in  my  case  meaning  freedom  to 
forget)  which  would  be  a  perilous  way  of  preparing  for  exami- 
nation. This  ad  libitum  perusal  had  its  interest  for  me.  The 
private  truth  being  that  I  had  not  read  "  The  Channel  Islands," 
I  was  amazed  at  the  variety  of  matter  which  the  volume  must 
contain  to  have  impressed  these  different  judges  with  the 
writer's  surpassing  capacity  to  handle  almost  all  branches  of 
inquiry  and  all  forms  of  presentation.  In  Jersey  she  had 
shown  herself  an  historian,  in  Guernsey  a  poetess,  in  Alder- 
ney  a  political  economist,  and  in  Sark  a  humorist :  there  were 
sketches  of  character  scattered  through  the  pages  which  might 
put  our  "  fictionists  "  to  the  blush ;  the  style  was  eloquent  and 
racy,  studded  with  gems  of  felicitous  remark;  and  the  moral 
spirit  throughout  was  so  superior  that,  said  one,  "  the  record- 
ing angel "  (who  is  not  supposed  to  take  account  of  literature 
as  such)  "  would  assuredly  set  down  the  work  as  a  deed  of 
religion."  The  force  of  this  eulogy  on  the  part  of  several 
reviewers  was  much  heightened  by  the  incidental  evidence  of 
their  fastidious  and  severe  taste,  which  seemed  to  suffer  con- 
siderably from  the  imperfections  of  our  chief  writers,  even  the 
dead  and  canonized :  one  afflicted  them  with  the  smell  of  oil, 
another  lacked  erudition  and  attempted  (though  vainly)  to 
dazzle  them  with  trivial  conceits,  one  wanted  to  be  more 
philosophical  than  nature  had  made  him,  another  in  attempt- 
ing to  be  comic  produced  the  melancholy  effect  of  a  half- 
starved  Merry-Andrew ;  while  one  and  all,  from  the  author  of 
the  "  Areopagitica  "  downward,  had  faults  of  style  which  must 


DISEASES  OF  SMALL  AUTHORSHIP.  126 

have  made  an  able  hand  in  the  "  Latchgate  Argus  "  shake  the 
many-glanced  head  belonging  thereto  with  a  smile  of  compas- 
sionate disapproval.  Not  so  the  authoress  of  "  The  Channel 
Islands " :  Vorticella  and  Shakespeare  were  allowed  to  be 
faultless.  I  gathered  that  no  blemishes  were  observable  in 
the  work  of  this  accomplished  writer,  and  the  repeated  infor- 
mation that  she  was  "  second  to  none  "  seemed  after  this  super- 
fluous. Her  thick  octavo — notes,  appendix,  and  all — was  un- 
flagging from  beginning  to  end ;  and  the  "  Land's  End  Times," 
using  a  rather  dangerous  rhetorical  figure,  recommended  you 
not  to  take  up  the  volume  unless  you  had  leisure  to  finish  it  at 
a  sitting.  It  had  given  one  writer  more  pleasure  than  he  had 
had  for  many  a  long  day — a  sentence  which  had  a  melancholy 
resonance,  suggesting  a  life  of  studious  languor  such  as  all 
previous  achievements  of  tho  human  mind  failed  to  stimulate 
into  enjoyment.  I  think  the  collection  of  critical  opinions 
wound  up  with  this  sentence,  and  I  had  turned  back  to  look  at 
the  lithographed  sketch  of  the  authoress  which  fronted  the  first 
page  of  the  album,  when  the  fair  original  re-entered  and  I  laid 
down  the  volume  on  its  appropriate  table. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  them?  "  said  Vorticella,  with 
an  emphasis  which  had  some  significance  unperceived  by  me. 
"  I  know  you  are  a  great  student.  Give  me  your  opinion  of 
these  opinions." 

"  They  must  be  very  gratifying  to  you, "  I  answered  with  a 
little  confusion,  for  I  perceived  that  I  might  easily  mistake 
my  footing,  and  I  began  to  have  a  presentiment  of  an  exami- 
nation for  which  I  was  by  no  means  crammed. 

"  On  the  whole — yes, "  said  Vorticella,  in  a  tone  of  conces- 
sion. "  A  few  of  the  notices  are  written  with  some  pains,  but 
not  one  of  them  has  really  grappled  with  the  chief  idea  in  the 
appendix.  I  don't  know  whether  you  have  studied  political 
economy,  but  you  saw  what  I  said  on  page  398  about  the 
Jersey  fisheries?  " 

I  bowed — I  confess  it — with  the  mean  hope  that  this  move- 
ment in  the  nape  of  my  neck  would  be  taken  as  sufficient  proof 
that  I  had  read,  marked,  and  learned.  I  do  not  forgive  my- 
self for  this  pantomimic  falsehood,  but  I  was  young  and 
morally  timorous,  and  Vorticella's  personality  had  an  effect 


126  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

on  me  something  like  that  of  a  powerful  mesmerizer  when  he 
directs  all  his  ten  fingers  toward  your  eyes,  as  unpleasantly 
visible  ducts  for  the  invisible  stream.  I  felt  a  great  power  of 
contempt  in  her,  if  I  did  not  come  up  to  her  expectations. 

"  Well, "  she  resumed,  "  you  observe  that  not  one  of  them 
has  taken  up  that  argument.  But  I  hope  I  convinced  you 
about  the  drag-nets?" 

Here  was  a  judgment  on  me.  Orientally  speaking,  I  had 
lifted  up  my  foot  on  the  steep  descent  of  falsity  and  was  com- 
pelled to  set  it  down  on  a  lower  level.  "  I  should  think  you 
must  be  right,"  said  I,  inwardly  resolving  that  on  the  next 
topic  I  would  tell  the  truth. 

"I  know  that  I  am  right,"  said  Vorticella.  "  The  fact  is 
that  no  critic  in  this  town  is  fit  to  meddle  with  such  subjects, 
unless  it  be  Volvox,  and  he,  with  all  his  command  of  lan- 
guage, is  very  superficial.  It  is  Volvox  -who  writes  in  the 
'Monitor.'  I  hope  you  noticed  how  he  contradicts  himself?" 

My  resolution,  helped  by  the  equivalence  of  dangers,  stoutly 
prevailed,  and  I  said,  "  No. " 

"No!  I  am  surprised.  He  is  the  only  one  who  finds  fault 
with  me.  He  is  a  Dissenter,  you  know.  The  '  Monitor  '  is 
the  Dissenters'  organ,  but  my  husband  has  been  so  useful  to 
them  in  municipal  affairs  that  they  would  not  venture  to  run 
my  book  down ;  they  feel  obliged  to  tell  the  truth  about  me. 
Still  Volvox  betrays  himself.  After  praising  me  for  my  pene- 
tration and  accuracy,  he  presently  says  I  have  allowed  my- 
self to  be  imposed  upon  and  have  let  my  active  imagination 
run  away  with  me.  That  is  like  his  dissenting  impertinence. 
Active  my  imagination  may  be,  but  I  have  it  under  control. 
Little  Vibrio,  who  writes  the  playful  notice  in  the  '  Medley 
Pie, '  has  a  clever  hit  at  Volvox  in  that  passage  about  the 
steeplechase  of  imagination;  where  the  loser  wants  to  make  it 
appear  that  the  winner  was  only  run  away  with.  But  if  you 
did  not  notice  Volvox's  self-contradiction  you  would  not  see 
the  point,"  added  Vorticella,  with  rather  a  chilling  intonation. 
"Or  perhaps  you  did  not  read  the  'Medley  Pie'  notice? 
That  is  a  pity.  Do  take  up  the  book  again.  Vibrio  is  a  poor 
little  tippling  creature,  but,  as  Mr.  Carlyle  would  say,  he  has 
an  eye,  and  he  is  always  lively." 


DISEASES  OP  SMALL  AUTHORSHIP.  127 

I  did  take  up  the  book  again,  and  read  as  demanded. 

"  It  is  very  ingenious, "  said  I,  really  appreciating  the  diffi- 
culty of  being  lively  in  this  connection :  it  seemed  even  more 
wonderful  than  that  a  Vibrio  should  have  an  eye. 

"You  are  probably  surprised  to  see  no  notices  from  the 
London  press,"  said  Vorticella.  "I  have  one — a  very  re- 
markable one.  But  I  reserve  it  until  the  others  have  spoken, 
and  then  I  shall  introduce  it  to  wind  up.  I  shall  have  them 
reprinted,  of  course,  and  inserted  in  future  copies.  This 
from  the  '  Candelabrum '  is  only  eight  lines  in  length,  but  full 
of  venom.  It  calls  my  style  dull  and  pompous.  I  think  that 
will  tell  its  own  tale,  placed  after  the  other  critiques." 

"  People' s  impressions  are  so  different, "  said  I.  "  Some 
persons  find  '  Don  Quixote '  dull. " 

"Yes,"  said  Vorticella,  in  emphatic  chest  tones,  "dulness 
is  a  matter  of  opinion ;  but  pompous !  That  I  never  was  and 
never  could  be.  Perhaps  he  means  that  my  matter  is  too  im- 
portant for  his  taste;  and  I  have  no  objection  to  that.  I  did 
not  intend  to  be  trivial.  I  should  just  like  to  read  you  that 
passage  about  the  drag-nets,  because  I  could  make  it  clearer 
to  you." 

A  second  (less  ornamental)  copy  was  at  her  elbow  and  was 
already  opened,  when  to  my  great  relief  another  guest  was 
announced,  and  I  was  able  to  take  my  leave  without  seeming 
to  run  away  from  "  The  Channel  Islands, "  though  not  without 
being  compelled  to  carry  with  me  the  loan  of  "  the  marked 
copy,"  which  I  was  to  find  advantageous  in  a  reperusal  of  the 
appendix,  and  was  only  requested  to  return  before  my  depar- 
ture from  Pumpiter.  Looking  into  the  volume  now  with  some 
curiosity,  I  found  it  a  very  ordinary  combination  of  the  com- 
monplace and  ambitious,  one  of  those  books  which  one  might 
imagine  to  have  been  written  under  the  old  Grub  Street  coer- 
cion of  hunger  and  thirst,  if  they  were  not  known  beforehand 
to  be  the  gratuitous  productions  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  whose 
circumstances  might  be  called  altogether  easy,  but  for  an 
uneasy  vanity  that  happened  to  have  been  directed  toward 
authorship.  Its  importance  was  that  of  a  polypus,  tumor, 
fungus,  or  other  erratic  outgrowth,  noxious  and  disfiguring  in 
its  effect  on  the  individual  organism  which  nourishes  it.  Poor 


128  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

Vorticella  might  not  have  been  more  wearisome  on  a  visit  than 
the  majority  of  her  neighbors,  but  for  this  disease  of  magni- 
fied self-importance  belonging  to  small  authorship.  I  under- 
stand that  the  chronic  complaint  of  "  The  Channel  Islands  " 
never  left  her.  As  the  years  went  on  and  the  publication 
tended  to  vanish  in  the  distance  for  her  neighbors'  memory, 
she  was  still  bent  on  dragging  it  to  the  foreground,  and  her 
chief  interest  in  new  acquaintances  was  the  possibility  of  lend- 
ing them  her  book,  entering  into  all  details  concerning  it,  and 
requesting  them  .to  read  her  album  of  "critical  opinions." 
This  really  made  her  more  tiresome  than  Gregarina,  whose 
distinction  was  that  she  had  had  cholera,  and  who  did  not 
feel  herself  in  her  true  position  with  strangers  until  they 
knew  it. 

My  experience  with  Vorticella  led  me  for  a  time  into  the 
false  supposition  that  this  sort  of  fungous  disfiguration,  which 
makes  Self  disagreeably  larger,  was  most  'common  to  the  fe- 
male sex ;  but  I  presently  found  that  here  too  the  male  could 
assert  his  superiority  and  show  a  more  vigorous  boredom.  I 
have  known  a  man  with  a  single  pamphlet  containing  an  as- 
surance that  somebody  else  was  wrong,  together  with  a  few 
approved  quotations,  produce  a  more  powerful  effect  of  shud- 
dering at  his  approach  than  ever  Vorticella  did  with  her 
varied  octavo  volume,  including  notes  and  appendix.  Males 
of  more  than  one  nation  recur  to  my  memory  who  produced 
from  their  pocket  on  the  slightest  encouragement  a  small  pink 
or  buff  duodecimo  pamphlet,  wrapped  in  silver  paper,  as  a 
present  held  ready  for  an  intelligent  reader.  "A  mode  of 
propagandism, "  you  remark  in  excuse ;  "  they  wished  to  spread 
some  useful  corrective  doctrine. "  Not  necessarily :  the  indoc- 
trination aimed  at  was  perhaps  to  convince  you  of  their  own 
talents  by  the  sample  of  'an  "  Ode  on  Shakespeare's  Birthday, " 
or  a  translation  from  Horace. 

Vorticella  may  pair  off  with  Monas,  who  had  also  written 
his  one  book — "  Here  and  There ;  or,  a  Trip  from  Truro  to 
Transylvania" — and  not  only  carried  it  in  his  portmanteau 
when  he  went  on  visits,  but  took  the  earliest  opportunity  of 
depositing  it  in  the  drawing-room,  and  afterward  would  enter 
to  look  for  it,  as  if  under  pressure  of  a  need  for  reference, 


DISEASES  OP  SMALL  AUTHORSHIP.  129 

begging  the  lady  of  the  house  to  tell  him  whether  she  had 
seen  "a  small  volume  bound  in  red."  One  hostess  at  last 
ordered  it  to  be  carried  into  his  bedroom  to  save  his  time; 
but  it  presently  reappeared  in  his  hands,  and  was  again  left 
with  inserted  slips  of  paper  on  the  drawing-room  table. 

Depend  upon  it,  vanity  is  human,  native  alike  to  men  and 
women ;  only  in  the  male  it  is  of  denser  texture,  less  volatile, 
so  that  it  less  immediately  informs  you  of  its  presence,  but  is 
more  massive  and  capable  of  knocking  you  down  if  you  come 
into  collision  with  it;  while  in  women  vanity  lays  by  its  small 
revenges  as  in  a  needle-case  always  at  hand.  The  difference 
is  in  muscle  and  finger-tips,  in  traditional  habits  and  mental 
perspective,  rather  than  in  the  original  appetite  of  vanity. 
It  is  an  approved  method  now  to  explain  ourselves  by  a  refer- 
ence to  the  races  as  little  like  us  as  possible,  which  leads  me 
to  observe  that  in  Fiji  the  men  use  the  most  elaborate  hair- 
dressing,  and  that  wherever  tattooing  is  in  vogue  the  male 
expects  to  carry  off  the  prize  of  admiration  for  pattern  and 
workmanship.  Arguing  analogically,  and  looking  for  this 
tendency  of  the  Fijian  or  Hawaiian  male  in  the  eminent  Euro- 
pean, we  must  suppose  that  it  exhibits  itself  under  the  forms 
of  civilized  apparel ;  and  it  would  be  a  great  mistake  to  esti- 
mate passionate  effort  by  the  effect  it  produces  on  our  percep- 
tion or  understanding.  It  is  conceivable  that  a  man  may  have 
concentrated  no  less  will  and  expectation  on  his  wrist-bands, 
gaiters,  and  the  shape  of  his  hat-brim,  or  an  appearance  which 
impresses  you  as  that  of  the  modern  "  swell,"  than  the  Ojibbe- 
way  on  an  ornamentation  which  seems  to  us  much  more  elab- 
orate. In  what  concerns  the  search  for  admiration  at  least,  it 
is  not  true  that  the  effect  is  equal  to  the  cause  and  resembles 
it.  The  cause  of  a  flat  curl  on  the  masculine  forehead,  such 
as  might  be  seen  when  George  the  Fourth  was  king,  must  have 
been  widely  different  in  quality  and  intensity  from  the  im- 
pression made  by  that  small  scroll  of  hair  on  the  organ  of  the 
beholder.  Merely  to  maintain  an  attitude  and  gait  which  I 
notice  in  certain  club-men,  and  especially  an  inflation  of  the 
chest  accompanying  very  small  remarks,  there  goes,  I  am  con- 
vinced, an  expenditure  of  physical  energy  little  appreciated  by 
the  multitude — a  mental  vision  of  Self  and  deeply  impressed 
0 


130  THEOPHRASTUS 

beholders  which  is  quite  without  antitype  in  what  we  call  the 
effect  produced  by  that  hidden  process. 

No  I  there  is  no  need  to  admit  that  women  would  carry 
away  the  prize  of  vanity  in  a  competition  where  differences  of 
custom  were  fairly  considered.  A  man  caunot  show  his  van- 
ity in  a  tight  skirt  which  forces  him  to  walk  sideways  down 
the  staircase;  but  let  the  match  be  between  the  respective 
vanities  of  largest  beard  and  tightest  skirt,  and  here  too  the 
battle  would  be  to  the  strong. 


XVL 

MOKAL   SWINDLERS. 

IT  is  a  familiar  example  of  irony  in  the  degradation  of 
words  that  "  what  a  man  is  worth "  has  come  to  mean  how 
much  money  he  possesses ;  but  there  seems  a  deeper  and  more 
melancholy  irony  in  the  shrunken  meaning  that  popular  or 
polite  speech  assigns  to  "  morality  "  and  "  morals.  '*  The  poor 
part  these  words  are  made  to  play  recalls  the  fate  of  those 
pagan  divinities  who,  after  being  understood  to  rule  the  pow- 
ers of  the  air  and  the  destinies  of  men,  came  down  to  the 
level  of  insignificant  demons,  or  were  even  made  a  farcical 
show  for  the  amusement  of  the  multitude. 

Talking  to  Melissa  in  a  time  of  commercial  trouble,  I  found 
her  disposed  to  speak  pathetically  of  the  disgrace  which  had 
fallen  on  Sir  Gavial  Mantrap,  because  of  his  conduct  in  rela- 
tion to  the  Eocene  Mines,  and  to  other  companies  ingeniously 
devised  by  him  for  the  punishment  of  ignorance  in  people  of 
small  means :  a  disgrace  by  which  the  poor  titled  gentleman 
was  actually  reduced  to  live  in  comparative  obscurity  on  his 
wife's  settlement  of  one  or  two  hundred  thousand  in  the  con- 
sols. 

"  Surely  your  pity  is  misapplied, "  said  I,  rather  dubiously, 
for  I  like  the  comfort  of  trusting  that  a  correct  moral  judg- 
ment is  the  strong  point  in  woman  (seeing  that  she  has  a 
majority  of  about  a  million  in  our  islands),  and  I  imagined 
that  Melissa  might  have  some  unexpressed  grounds  for  her 
opinion.  "  I  should  have  thought  you  would  rather  be  sorry 
for  Mantrap's  victims — the  widows,  spinsters,  and  hard-work- 
ing fathers  whom  his  unscrupulous  haste  to  make  himself  rich 
has  cheated  of  all  their  savings,  while  he  is  eating  well,  lying 
softly,  and  after  impudently  justifying  himself  before  the 
public,  is  perhaps  joining  in  the  General  Confession  with  a 


132  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

sense  that  he  is  an  acceptable  object  in  the  sight  of  God, 
though  decent  men  refuse  to  meet  him. " 

"  Oh,  all  that  about  the  Companies,  I  know,  was  most  un- 
fortunate. In  commerce  people  are  led  to  do  so  many  things, 
and  he  might  not  know  exactly  how  everything  would  turn 
out.  But  Sir  Gavial  made  a  good  use  of  his  money,  and  he  is 
a  thoroughly  moral  man. " 

"What  do  you  mean  by  a  thoroughly  moral  man?  "  said  I. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  every  one  means  the  same  by  that,"  said 
Melissa,  with  a  slight  air  of  rebuke.  "  Sir  Gavial  is  an  excel- 
lent family  man — quite  blameless  there;  and  so  charitable 
round  his  place  at  Tiptop.  Very  different  from  Mr,  Barabbas, 
whose  life,  my  husband  tells  me,  is  most  objectionable,  with 
actresses  and  that  sort  of  thing.  I  think  a  man's  morals 
should  make  a  difference  to  us.  I'm  not  sorry  for  Mr.  Barab- 
bas, but  /  am  sorry  for  Sir  Gavial  Mantrap. " 

I  will  not  repeat  my  answer  to  Melissa,  for  I  fear  it  was 
offensively  brusque,  my  opinion  being  that  Sir  Gavial  was  the 
more  pernicious  scoundrel  of  the  two,  since  his  name  for  virtue 
served  as  an  effective  part  of  a  swindling  apparatus ;  and  per- 
haps I  hinted  that  to  call  such  a  man  moral  showed  rather  a 
silly  notion  of  human  affairs.  In  fact,  I  had  an  angry  wish 
to  be  instructive,  and  Melissa,  as  will  sometimes  happen, 
noticed  my  anger  without  appropriating  rny  instruction,  for  I 
have  since  heard  that  she  speaks  of  me  as  rather  violent-tem- 
pered, and  not  over  strict  in  my  views  of  morality. 

I  wish  that  this  narrow  use  of  words  which  are  wanted  in 
their  full  meaning  were  confined  to  women  like  Melissa.  See- 
ing that  Morality  and  Morals  under  their  alias  of  Ethics  are 
the  subject  of  voluminous  discussion,  and  their  true  basis  a 
pressing  matter  of  dispute — seeing  that  the  most  famous  book 
ever  written  on  Ethics,  and  forming  a  chief  study  in  our  col- 
leges, allies  ethical  with  political  science  or  that  which  treats 
of  the  constitution  and  prosperity  of  States,  one  might  expect 
that  educated  men  would  find  reason  to  avoid  a  perversion  of 
language  which  lends  itself  to  no  wider  view  of  life  than  that 
of  village  gossips.  Yet  I  find  even  respectable  historians  of 
our  own  and  of  foreign  countries,  after  showing  that  a  king 
was  treacherous,  rapacious,  and  ready  to  sanction  gross  breaches 


MORAL  SWINDLERS.  133 

in  the  administration  of  justice,  end  by  praising  him  for  his 
pure  moral  character,  by  which  one  must  suppose  them  to 
mean  that  he  was  not  lewd  nor  debauched,  not  the  European 
twin  of  the  typical  Indian  potentate  whom  Macaulay  describes 
as  passing  his  life  in  chewing  bang  and  fondling  dancing-girls. 
And  since  we  are  sometimes  told  of  such  maleficent  kings  that 
they  were  religious,  we  arrive  at  the  curious  result  that  the 
most  serious  wide-reaching  duties  of  man  lie  quite  outside 
both  Morality  and  Religion — the  one  of  these  consisting  in 
not  keeping  mistresses  (and  perhaps  not  drinking  too  much), 
and  the  other  in  certain  ritual  and  spiritual  transactions  with 
God  which  can  be  carried  on  equally  well  side  by  side  with 
the  basest  conduct  toward  men.  With  such  a  classification  as 
this  it  is  no  wonder,  considering  the  strong  reaction  of  lan- 
guage on  thought,  that  many  minds,  dizzy  with  indigestion 
of  recent  science  and  philosophy,  are  far  to  seek  for  the 
grounds  of  social  duty,  and  without  entertaining  any  private 
intention  of  committing  a  perjury  which  would  ruin  an  inno- 
cent man,  or  seeking  gain  by  supplying  bad  preserved  meats 
to  our  navy,  feel  themselves  speculatively  obliged  to  inquire 
why  they  should  not  do  so,  and  are  inclined  to  measure  their 
intellectual  subtlety  by  their  dissatisfaction  with  all  answers 
to  this  "  Why?  "  It  is  of  little  use  to  theorize  in  ethics  while 
our  habitual  phraseology  stamps  the  larger  part  of  our  social 
duties  as  something  that  lies  aloof  from  the  deepest  needs  and 
affections  of  our  nature.  The  informal  definitions  of  popular 
language  are  the  only  medium  through  which  theory  really 
affects  the  mass  of  minds  even  among  the  nominally  educated ; 
and  when  a  man  whose  business  hours,  the  solid  part  of  every 
day,  are  spent  in  an  unscrupulous  course  of  public  or  private 
action  which  has  every  calculable  chance  of  causing  wide- 
spread injury  and  misery,  can  be  called  moral  because  he  comes 
home  to  dine  with  his  wife  and  children  and  cherishes  the 
happiness  of  his  own  hearth,  the  augury  is  not  good  for  the 
use  of  higfa  ethical  and  theological  disputation . 

Not  for  one  moment  would  one  willingly  lose  sight  of  the 
truth  that  the  relation  of  the  sexes  and  the  primary  ties  of 
kinship  are  the  deepest  roots  of  human  wellbeing,  but  to  make 
them  by  themselves  the  equivalent  of  morality  is  tp  cut  off  the, 


134  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

channels  of  feeling  through  which  they  are  the  feeders  of  that 
wellbeing.  They  are  the  original  fountains  of  a  sensibility  to 
the  claims  of  others,  which  is  the  bond  of  societies ;  but  being 
necessarily  in  the  first  instance  a  private  good,  there  is  always 
the  danger  that  individual  selfishness  will  see  in  them  only  the 
best  part  of  its  own  gain;  just  as  knowledge,  navigation,  com- 
merce, and  all  the  conditions  which  are  of  a  nature  to  awaken 
men's  consciousness  of  their  mutual  dependence  and  to  make 
the  world  one  great  society,  are  the  occasions  of  selfish,  un- 
fair action,  of  war  and  oppression,  so  long  as  the  public  con- 
science or  chief  force  of  feeling  and  opinion  is  not  uniform 
and  strong  enough  in  its  insistence  on  what  is  demanded  by 
the  general  welfare.  And  among  the  influences  that  must  re- 
tard a  right  public  judgment,  the  degradation  of  words  which 
involve  praise  and  blame  will  be.  reckoned  worth  protesting 
against  by  every  mature  observer.  To  rob  words  of  half  their 
meaning,  while  they  retain  their  dignity  as  qualifications,  is 
like  allowing  to  men  who  have  lost  half  their  faculties  the 
same  high  and  perilous  command  which  they  won  in  their 
time  of  vigor;  or  like  selling  food  and  seeds  after  fraudulently 
abstracting  their  best  virtues :  in  each  case  what  ought  to  be 
beneficently  strong  is  fatally  enfeebled,  if  not  empoisoned. 
Until  we  have  altered  our  dictionaries  and  have  found  some 
other  word  than  morality  to  stand  in  popular  use  for  the 
duties  of  man  to  man,  let  us  refuse  to  accept  as  moral  the 
contractor  who  enriches  himself  by  using  large  machinery  to 
make  pasteboard  soles  pass  as  leather  for  the  feet  of  unhappy 
conscripts  fighting  at  miserable  odds  against  invaders :  let  us 
rather  call  him  a  miscreant,  though  he  were  the  tenderest, 
most  faithful  of  husbands,  and  contend  that  his  own  experi- 
ence of  home  happiness  makes  his  reckless  infliction  of  suffer- 
ing on  others  all  the  more  atrocious.  Let  us  refuse  to  accept 
as  moral  any  political  leader  who  should  allow  his  conduct  in 
relation  to  great  issues  to  be  determined  by  egoistic  passion, 
and  boldly  say  that  he  would  be  less  immoral  even  though  he 
were  as  lax  in  his  personal  habits  as  Sir  Robert  Walpole,  if  at 
the  same  time  his  sense  of  the  public  welfare  were  supreme  in 
his  mind,  quelling  all  pettier  impulses  beneath  a  magnanimous 
impartiality.  And  though  we  were  to  find  among  that  class 


MORAL  SWINDLERS.  135 

of  journalists  who  live  by  recklessly  reporting  injurious  ru- 
mors, insinuating  the  blackest  motives  in  opponents,  descant- 
ing at  large  and  with  an  air  of  infallibility  on  dreams  which 
they  both  find  and  interpret,  and  stimulating  bad  feeling 
between  nations  by  abusive  writing  which  is  as  empty  of  real 
conviction  as  the  rage  of  a  pantomime  king,  and  would  be 
ludicrous  if  its  effects  did  not  make  it  appear  diabolical — 
though  we  were  to  find  among  these  a  man  who  was  benig- 
nancy  itself  in  his  own  circle,  a  healer  of  private  differences,  a 
soother  in  private  calamities,  let  us  pronounce  him  neverthe- 
less flagrantly  immoral,  a  root  of  hideous  cancer  in  the  com- 
monwealth, turning  the  channels  of  instruction  into  feeders  of 
social  and  political  disease. 

In  opposite  ways  one  sees  bad  effects  likely  to  be  encour- 
aged by  this  narrow  use  of  the  word  morals,  shutting  out 
from  its  meaning  half  those  actions  of  a  man's  life  which  tell 
momentously  on  the  well-being  of  his  fellow-citizens,  and  on 
the  preparation  of  a  future  for  the  children  growing  uj/  around 
him.  Thoroughness  of  workmanship,  care  in  the  execution  of 
every  task  undertaken,  as  if  it  were  the  acceptance  of  a  trust 
which  it  would  be  a  breach  of  faith  not  to  discharge  well,  is  a 
form  of  duty  so  momentous  that  if  it  were  to  die  out  from  the 
feeling  and  practice  of  a  people,  all  reforms  of  institutions 
would  be  helpless  to  create  national  prosperity  and  national 
happiness.  Do  we  desire  to  see  public  spirit  penetrating  all 
classes  of  the  community  and  affecting  every  man's  conduct, 
so  that  he  shall  make  neither  the  saving  of  his  soul  nor  any 
other  private  saving  an  excuse  for  indifference  to  the  general 
welfare?  Well  and  good.  But  the  sort  of  public  spirit  that 
sea'  >$  its  bread- winning  work,  whether  with  the  trowel,  the 
pen,  or  the  overseeing  brain,  that  it  may  hurry  to  scenes  of 
political  or  social  agitation,  would  be  as  baleful  a  gift  to  our 
people  as  any  malignant  demon  could  devise.  One  best  part 
of  educational  training  is  that  which  comes  through  special 
knowledge  and  manipulative  or  other  skill,  with  its  usual  ac- 
companiment of  delight,  in  relation  to  work  which  is  the  daily 
bread- winning  occupation — which  is  a  man's  contribution  to 
the  effective  wealth  of  society  in  return  for  what  he  takes  as 
his  own  share,  But  this  duty  of  doing  one's  proper  work 


136  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

well,  and  taking  care  that  every  product  of  one's  labor  shall 
be  genuinely  what  it  pretends  to  be,  is  not  only  left  out  ol 
morals  in  popular  speech,  it  is  very  little  insisted  on  by  public 
teachers,  at  least  in  the  only  effective  way — by  tracing  the 
continuous  effects  of  ill-done  work.  Some  of  them  seem  to  be 
still  hopeful  that  it  will  follow  as  a  necessary  consequence 
from  week-day  services,  ecclesiastical  decoration,  and  im- 
proved hymn-books;  others  apparently  trust  to  descanting 
on  self-culture  in  general,  or  to  raising  a  general  sense  of 
faulty  circumstances;  and  meanwhile  lax,  makeshift  work 
from  the  high  conspicuous  kind  to  the  average  and  obscure,  is 
allowed  to  pass  unstamped  with  the  disgrace  of  immorality, 
though  there  is  not  a  member  of  society  who  is  not  daily  suf- 
fering from  it  materially  and  spiritually,  and  though  it  is  the 
fatal  cause  that  must  degrade  our  national  rank  and  our  com- 
merce in  spite  of  all  open  markets  and  discovery  of  available 
coal-seams. 

I  suppose  one  may  take  the  popular  misuse  of  the  words 
Morality  and  Morals  as  some  excuse  for  certain  absurdities 
which  are  occasional  fashions  in  speech  and  writing — certain 
old  lay  figures,  as  ugly  as  the  queerest  Asiatic  idol,  which  at 
different  periods  get  propped  into  loftiness,  and  attired  in 
magnificent  Venetian  drapery,  so  that  whether  they  have  a 
human  face  or  not  is  of  little  consequence.  One  is,  the  notion 
that  there  is  a  radical,  irreconcilable  opposition  between  in- 
tellect and  morality.  I  do  not  mean  the  simple  statement  of 
fact,  which  everybody  knows,  that  remarkably  able  men  have 
had  very  faulty  morals,  and  have  outraged  public  feeling  even 
at  its  ordinary  standard ;  but  the  supposition  that  the  ablest 
intellect,  the  highest  genius,  will  see  through  morality  as  a 
sort  of  twaddle  for  bibs  and  tuckers,  a  doctrine  of  dulness,  a 
mere  incident  in  human  stupidity.  We  begin  to  understand 
the  acceptance  of  this  foolishness  by  considering  that  we  live 
in  a  society  where  we  may  hear  a  treacherous  monarch,  or  a 
malignant  and  lying  politician,  or  a  man  who  uses  either  offi- 
cial or  literary  p'ower  as  an  instrument  of  his  private  partiality 
or  hatred,  or  a  manufacturer  who  devises  the  falsification  of 
wares,  or  a  trader  who  deals  in  virtueless  seed-grains,  praised 
or  compassionated  because  of  his  excellent  morals.  Clearly 


MORAL  SWINDLERS.  13? 

if  morality  meant  no  more  than  such  decencies  as  are  practised 
by  these  poisonous  members  of  society,  it  would  be  possible  to 
say,  without  suspicion  of  light-headedness,  that  morality  lay 
aloof  from  the  grand  stream  of  human  affairs,  as  a  small  chan- 
nel fed  by  the  stream  and  not  missed  from  it.  While  this 
form  of  nonsense  is  conveyed  in  the  popular  use  of  words, 
there  must  be  plenty  of  well-dressed  ignorance  at  leisure  to 
run  through  a  box  of  books,  which  will  feel  itself  initiated  in 
the  freemasonry  of  intellect  by  a  view  of  life  which  might  take 
for  a  Shakespearian  motto — 

"Fair  is  foul  and  foul  is  fair, 
Hover  through  the  fog  and  filthy  air  " — 

and  will  find  itself  easily  provided  with  striking  conversation 
by  the  rule  of  reversing  all  the  judgments  on  good  and  evil 
which  have  come  to  be  the  calendar  and  clockwork  of  so- 
ciety. But  let  our  habitual  talk  give  morals  their  full  mean- 
ing as  the  conduct  which,  in  every  human  relation,  would 
follow  from  the  fullest  knowledge  and  the  fullest  sympathy — 
a  meaning  perpetually  corrected  and  enriched  by  a  more  thor- 
ough appreciation  of  dependence  in  things,  and  a  finer  sensi- 
bility to  both  physical  and  spiritual  fact — and  this  ridiculous 
ascription  of  superlative  power  to  minds  which  have  no  effect- 
ive awe-inspiring  vision  of  the  human  lot,  no  response  of  un- 
derstanding to  the  connection  between  duty  and  the  material 
processes  by  which  the  world  is  kept  habitable  for  cultivated 
man,  will  be  tacitly  discredited  without  any  need  to  cite  the 
immortal  names  'that  all  are  obliged  to  take  as  the  measure  of 
intellectual  rank  and  highly  charged  genius. 

Suppose  a  Frenchman — I  mean  no  disrespect  to  the  great 
French  nation,  for  all  nations  are  afflicted  with  their  peculiar 
parasitic  growths,  which  are  lazy,  hungry  forms,  usually  char- 
acterized by  a  disproportionate  swallowing  apparatus:  sup- 
pose a  Parisian  who  should  shuffle  down  the  Boulevard  with 
a  soul  ignorant  of  the  gravest  cares  and  the  deepest  tender- 
ness of  manhood,  and  a  frame  more  or  less  fevered  by  debauch- 
ery, mentally  polishing  into  utmost  refinement  of  phrase  and 
rhythm  verses  which  were  an  enlargement  on  that  Shakes- 
pearian motto,  and  worthy  of  the  most  expensive  title  to  be 


138  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

furnished  by  the  vendors  of  such  antithetic  ware  as  Les  mar' 
guerites  de  V Enfer,  or  Les  delices  de  Beelzebuth.  Tlxis  sup- 
posed personage  might  probably  enough  regard  his  negation  of 
those  moral  sensibilities  which  make  half  the  warp  and  woof 
of  human  history,  his  indifference  to  the  hard  thinking  and 
hard  handiwork  of  life,  to  which  he  owed  even  his  own  gauzy 
mental  garments  with  their  spangles  of  poor  paradox,  as  the 
royalty  of  genius,  for  we  are  used  to  witness  such  self-crown- 
ing in  many  forms  of  mental  alienation ;  but  he  would  not,  I 
think,  be  taken,  even  by  his  own  generation,  as  a  living  proof 
that  there  can  exist  such  a  combination  as  that  of  moral  stu- 
pidity and  trivial  emphasis  of  personal  indulgence  with  the 
large  yet  finely  discriminating  vision  which  marks  the  intel- 
lectual masters  of  our  kind.  Doubtless  there  are  many  sorts 
of  transfiguration,  and  a  man  who  has  come  to  be  worthy  of 
all  gratitude  and  reverence  may  have  had  his  swinish  period, 
wallowing  in  ugly  places;  but  suppose  it  had  been  handed 
down  to  us  that  Sophocles  or  Virgil  had  at  one  time  made 
himself  scandalous  in  this  way :  the  works  which  have  conse- 
crated their  memory  for  our  admiration  and  gratitude  are  not 
a  glorifying  of  swinishness,  but  an  artistic  incorporation  of 
the  highest  sentiment  known  to  their  age. 

All  these  may  seem  to  be  wide  reasons  for  objecting  to  Me- 
lissa's pity  for  Sir  Gavial  Mantrap  on  the  ground  of  his  good 
morals ;  but  their  connection  will  not  be  obscure  to  any  one 
who  has  taken  pains  to  observe  the  links  uniting  the  scattered 
signs  of  our  social  development. 


XVlt 

SHADOWS  OF  THE  COMING 

MY  friend  Trost,  who  is  no  optimist  as  to  the  state  of  the 
universe  hitherto,  but  is  confident  that  at  some  future  period 
within  the  duration  of  the  solar  system,  curs  will  be  the  best 
of  all  possible  worlds — a  hope  which  I  always  honor  as  a  sign 
of  beneficent  qualities — my  friend  Trost  always  tries  to  keep 
up  my  spirits  under  the  sight  of  the  extremely  unpleasant  and 
disfiguring  work  by  which  many  of  our  fellow-creatures  have 
to  get  their  bread,  with  the  assurance  that  "  all  this  will  soon 
be  done  by  machinery."  But  he  sometimes  neutralizes  the 
consolation  by  extending  it  over  so  large  an  area  of  human 
labor,  and  insisting  so  impressively  on  the  quantity  of  energy 
which  will  thus  be  set  free  for  loftier  purposes,  that  I  am 
tempted  to  desire  an  occasional  famine  of  invention  in  the 
coming  ages,  lest  the  humbler  kinds  of  work  should  be  entirely 
nullified  while  there  are  still  left  some  men  and  women  who 
are  not  fit  for  the  highest. 

Especially,  when  one  considers  the  perfunctory  way  in 
which  some  of  the  most  exalted  tasks  are  already  executed  by 
those  who  are  understood  to  be  educated  for  them,  there  rises 
a  fearful  vision  of  the  human  race  evolving  machine^  which 
will  by  and  by  throw  itself  fatally  out  of  work.  When,  in 
the  Bank  of  England,  I  see  a  wondrously  delicate  machine  for 
testing  sovereigns,  a  shrewd  implacable  little  steel  Rhadaman- 
thus  that,  once  the  coins  are  delivered  up  to  it,  lifts  and  bal- 
ances each  in  turn  for  the  fraction  of  an  instant,  finds  it  want- 
ing or  sufficient,  and  dismisses  it  to  right  or  left  with  rigorous 
justice;  when  I  am  told  of  micrometers  and  thermopiles  .and 
tasimeters  which  deal  physically  with  the  invisible,  the*  im- 
palpable, and  the  unimaginable;  of  cunning  wires  and  wheels 
and  pointing  needles  which  Will  register  your  and  my  quick- 


140  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

ness  so  as  to  exclude  flattering  opinion;  of  a  machine  for 
drawing  the  right  conclusion,  which  will  doubtless  by  and  by 
be  improved  into  an  automaton  for  finding  true  premises ;  of 
a  microphone  which  detects  the  cadence  of  the  fly's  foot  on 
the  ceiling,  and  may  be  expected  presently  to  discriminate  the 
noises  of  our  various  follies  as  they  soliloquize  or  converse  in 
our  brains — my  mind  seeming  too  small  for  these  things,  I 
get  a  little  out  of  it,  like  an  unfortunate  savage  too  suddenly 
brought  face  to  face  with  civilization,  and  I  exclaim — 

"  Am  I  already  in  the  shadow  of  the  Coming  Race?  and  will 
the  creatures  who  are  to  transcend  and  finally  supersede  us  be 
steely  organisms  giving  out  the  effluvia  of  the  laboratory,  and 
performing  with  infallible  exactness  more  than  everything 
that  we  have  performed  with  a  slovenly  approximativeness 
and  self-defeating  inaccuracy?" 

"  But, "  says  Trost,  treating  me  with  cautious  mildness  on 
hearing  me  vent  this  raving  notion,  "you  forget  that  these 
wonder-workers  are  the  slaves  of  our  race,  need  our  tendance 
and  regulation,  obey  the  mandates  of  our  consciousness,  and 
are  only  deaf  and  dumb  bringers  of  reports  which  we  decipher 
and  make  use  of.  They  are  simply  extensions  of  the  human 
organism,  so  to  speak,  limbs  immeasurably  more  powerful, 
ever  more  subtle  finger-tips,  ever  more  mastery  over  the  in- 
visibly great  and  the  invisibly  small.  Each  new  machine 
needs  a  new  appliance  of  human  skill  to  construct  it,  new 
devices  to  feed  it  with  material,  and  often  keener- edged  facul- 
ties to  note  its  registrations  or  performances.  How  then  can 
machines  supersede  us? — they  depend  upon  us.  When  we 
cease,  they  cease." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that, "  said  I,  getting  back  into  my 
mind,  and  becoming  rather  wilful  in  consequence.  "  If,  as  I 
have  heard  you  contend,  machines  as  they  are  more  and  more 
perfected  will  require  less  and  less  of  tendance,  how  do  I 
know  that  they  may  not  be  ultimately  made  to  carry,  or  may 
not  in  themselves  evolve,  conditions  of  self-supply,  self-re- 
pair, and  reproduction,  and  not  only  do  all  the  mighty  and 
subtle  work  possible  on  this  planet  better  than  we  could  do  it, 
but  with  the  immense  advantage  of  banishing  from  the  earth's 
atmosphere  screaming  consciousnesses  which,  in  our  compara- 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  COMING  RACE.  141 

tively  clumsy  race,  make  an  intolerable  noise  and  fuss  to  each 
other  about  every  petty  ant-like  performance,  looking  on  at 
all  work  only  as  it  were  to  spring  a  rattle  here  or  blow  a 
trumpet  there,  with  a  ridiculous  sense  of  being  effective?  I 
for  my  part  cannot  see  any  reason  why  a  sufficiently  penetrat- 
ing thinker,  who  can  see  his  way  through  a  thousand  years 
or  so,  should  not  conceive  a  parliament  of  machines,  in  which 
the  manners  were  excellent  and  the  motions  infallible  in  logic : 
one  honorable  instrument,  a  remote  descendant  of  the  Voltaic 
family,  might  discharge  a  powerful  current  (entirely  without 
animosity)  on  an  honorable  instrument  opposite,  of  more  up- 
start origin,  but  belonging  to  the  ancient  edge-tool  race  which 
we  already  at  Sheffield  see  paring  thick  iron  as  if  it  were  mel- 
low cheese — by  this  unerringly  directed  discharge  operating 
on  movements  corresponding  to  what  we  call  Estimates,  and 
by  necessary  mechanical  consequence  on  movements  corre- 
sponding to  what  we  call  the  Funds,  which  with  a  vain  analogy 
we  sometimes  speak  of  as  '  sensitive.  '  For  every  machine 
would  be  perfectly  educated,  that  is  to  say,  would  have  the 
suitable  molecular  adjustments,  which  would  act  not  the  less 
infallibly  for  being  free  from  the  fussy  accompaniment  of  that 
consciousness  to  which  our  prejudice  gives  a  supreme  govern- 
ing rank,  when  in  truth  it  is  an  idle  parasite  on  the  grand 
sequence  of  things. " 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort !  "  returned  Trost,  getting  angry,  and 
judging  it  kind  to  treat  me  with  some  severity ;  "  what  you 
have  heard  me  say  is,  that  our  race  will  and  must  act  as  a 
nervous  centre  to  the  utmost  development  of  mechanical  pro- 
cesses: the  subtly  refined  powers  of  machines  will  react  in 
producing  more  subtly  refined  thinking  processes  which  will 
occupy  the  minds  set  free  from  grosser  labor.  Say,  for  ex- 
ample, that  all  the  scavengers'  work  of  London  were  done,  so 
far  as  human  attention  is  concerned,  by  the  occasional  pres- 
sure of  a  brass  button  (as  in  the  ringing  of  an  electric  bell), 
you  will  then  have  a  multitude  of  brains  set  free  for  the 
exquisite  enjoyment  of  dealing  with  the  exact  sequences  and 
high  speculations  supplied  and  prompted  by  the  delicate  ma- 
chines which  yield  a  response  to  the  fixed  stars,  and  give 
readings  of  the  spiral  vortices  fundamentally  concerned  in  the 


144  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

those  of  human  language  and  all  the  intricate  web  of  what  we 
call  its  effects,  without  sensitive  impression,  without  sensitive 
impulse :  there  may  be,  let  us  say,  mute  orations,  mute  rhap- 
sodies, mute  discussions,  and  no  consciousness  there  even  to 
enjoy  the  silence." 

"  Absurd !  "  grumbled  Trost. 

"The  supposition  is  logical,"  said  I.  "It  is  well  argued 
from  the  premises." 

"Whose  premises?"  cried  Trost,  turning  on  me  with  some 
fierceness.  "You  don't  mean  to  call  them  mine,  I  hope." 

"  Heaven  forbid !  They  seem  to  be  flying  about  in  the  air 
with  other  germs,  and  have  found  a  sort  of  nidus  among  my 
melancholy  fancies.  Nobody  really  holds  them.  They  bear 
the  same  relation  to  real  belief  as  walking  on  the  head  for  a 
show  does  to  running  away  from  an  explosion  or  walking  fast 
to  catch  the  train." 


XYIII. 
THE   MODEKN   HEP!    HEP!   HEP! 

To  discern  likeness  amidst  diversity,  it  is  well  known,  does 
not  require  so  fine  a  mental  edge  as  the  discerning  of  diversity 
amidst  general  sameness.  The  primary  rough  classification 
depends  on  the  prominent  resemblances  of  things :  the  prog- 
ress is  toward  finer  and  finer  discrimination  according  to  minute 
differences. 

Yet  even  at  this  stage  of  European  culture  one's  attention  is 
continually  drawn  to  the  prevalence  of  that  grosser  mental  sloth 
which  makes  people  dull  to  the  most  ordinary  prompting  of 
comparison — the  bringing  things  together  because  of  their  like- 
ness. The  same  motives,  the  same  ideas,  the  same  practices, 
are  alternately  admired  and  abhorred,  lauded  and  denounced, 
according  to  their  association  with  superficial  differences,  his- 
torical or  actually  social:  even  learned  writers  treating  of 
great  subjects  often  show  an  attitude  of  mind  not  greatly  supe- 
rior in  its  logic  to  that  of  the  frivolous  fine  lady  who  is  in- 
dignant at  the  frivolity  of  her  maid. 

To  take  only  the  subject  of  the  Jews:  it  would  be  difficult 
to  find  a  form  of  bad  reasoning  about  them  which  has  not  been 
heard  in  conversation  or  been  admitted  to  the  dignity  of  print-, 
but  the  neglect  of  resemblances  is  a  common  property  of  dul- 
ness  which  unites  all  the  various  points  of  view — the  preju- 
diced, the  puerile,  the  spiteful,  and  the  abysmally  ignorant. 

That  the  preservation  of  national  memories  is  an  element 
and  a  means  of  national  greatness,  that  their  revival  is  a  sign 
of  reviving  nationality,  that  every  heroic  defender,  every  pa- 
triotic restorer,  has  been  inspired  by  such  memories  and  has 
made  them  his  watchword,  that  even  such  a  corporate  ex- 
istence as  that  of  a  Koman  legion  or  an  English  regiment 
has  been  made  valorous  by  memorial  standards, — these  are 
JO 


144  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

those  of  human  language  and  all  the  intricate  web  of  what  we 
call  its  effects,  without  sensitive  impression,  without  sensitive 
impulse:  there  may  be,  let  us  say,  mute  orations,  mute  rhap- 
sodies, mute  discussions,  and  no  consciousness  there  even  to 
enjoy  the  silence." 

"  Absurd !  "  grumbled  Trost. 

"The  supposition  is  logical,"  said  I.  "It  is  well  argued 
from  the  premises." 

"Whose  premises?"  cried  Trost,  turning  on  me  with  some 
fierceness.  "You  don't  mean  to  call  them  mine,  I  hope." 

"  Heaven  forbid !  They  seem  to  be  flying  about  in  the  air 
with  other  germs,  and  have  found  a  sort  of  nidus  among  my 
melancholy  fancies.  Nobody  really  holds  them.  They  bear 
the  same  relation  to  real  belief  as  walking  on  the  head  for  a 
show  does  to  running  away  from  an  explosion  or  walking  fast 
to  catch  the  train." 


XVIII. 
THE   MODERN   HEP!    HEP!   HEP! 

To  discern  likeness  amidst  diversity,  it  is  well  known,  does 
not  require  so  fine  a  mental  edge  as  the  discerning  of  diversity 
amidst  general  sameness.  The  primary  rough  classification 
depends  on  the  prominent  resemblances  of  things :  the  prog- 
ress is  toward  finer  and  finer  discrimination  according  to  minute 
differences. 

Yet  even  at  this  stage  of  European  culture  one's  attention  is 
continually  drawn  to  the  prevalence  of  that  grosser  mental  sloth 
which  makes  people  dull  to  the  most  ordinary  prompting  of 
comparison — the  bringing  things  together  because  of  their  like- 
ness. The  same  motives,  the  same  ideas,  the  same  practices, 
are  alternately  admired  and  abhorred,  lauded  and  denounced, 
according  to  their  association  with  superficial  differences,  his- 
torical or  actually  social:  even  learned  writers  treating  of 
great  subjects  often  show  an  attitude  of  mind  not  greatly  supe- 
rior in  its  logic  to  that  of  the  frivolous  fine  lady  who  is  in- 
dignant at  the  frivolity  of  her  maid. 

To  take  only  the  subject  of  the  Jews :  it  would  be  difficult 
to  find  a  form  of  bad  reasoning  about  them  which  has  not  been 
heard  in  conversation  or  been  admitted  to  the  dignity  of  print-, 
but  the  neglect  of  resemblances  is  a  common  property  of  dul- 
ness  which  unites  all  the  various  points  of  view — the  preju- 
diced, the  puerile,  the  spiteful,  and  the  abysmally  ignorant. 

That  the  preservation  of  national  memories  is  an  element 
and  a  means  of  national  greatness,  that  their  revival  is  a  sign 
of  reviving  nationality,  that  every  heroic  defender,  every  pa- 
triotic restorer,  has  been  inspired  by  such  memories  and  has 
made  them  his  watchword,  that  even  such  a  corporate  ex- 
istence as  that  of  a  Roman  legion  or  an  English  regiment 
has  been  made  valorous  by  memorial  standards, — these  $r§ 
10 


146  THEOPHRASTU8  SUCH. 

the  glorious  commonplaces  of  historic  teaching  at  our  public 
schools  and  universities,  being  happily  ingrained  in  Greek  and 
Latin  classics.  They  have  also  been  impressed  on  the  world 
by  conspicuous  modern  instances.  That  there  is  a  free  mod- 
ern Greece  is  due — through  all  infiltration  of  other  than  Greek 
blood — to  the  presence  of  ancient  Greece  in  the  consciousness 
of  European  men ;  and  every  speaker  would  feel  his  point  safe 
if  he  were  to  praise  Byron's  devotion  to  a  cause  made  glorious 
by  ideal  identification  with  the  past;  hardly  so,  if  he  were  to 
insist  that  the  Greeks  were  not  to  be  helped  further  because 
their  history  shows  that  they  were  anciently  unsurpassed  in 
treachery  and  lying,  and  that  many  modern  Greeks  are  highly 
disreputable  characters,  while  others  are  disposed  to  grasp  too 
large  a  share  of  our  commerce.  The  same  with  Italy :  the 
pathos  of  his  country's  lot  pierced  the  youthful  soul  of  Maz- 
zini,  because,  like  Dante's,  his  blood  was  fraught  with  the 
kinship  of  Italian  greatness,  his  imagination  filled  with  a  ma- 
jestic past  that  wrought  itself  into  a  majestic  future.  Half  a 
century  ago,  what  was  Italy?  An  idling-place  of  dilettante- 
ism  or  of  itinerant  motiveless  wealth,  a  territory  parcelled  out 
for  papal  sustenance,  dynastic  convenience,  and  the  profit  of 
an  alien  Government.  What  were  the  Italians?  No  people, 
no  voice  in  European  counsels,  no  massive  power  in  European 
affairs:  a  race  thought  of  in  English  and  French  society  as 
chiefly  adapted  to  the  operatic  stage,  or  to  serve  as  models  for 
painters ;  disposed  to  smile  gratefully  at  the  reception  of  half- 
pence ;  and  by  the  more  historical  remembered  to  be  rather 
polite  than  truthful,  in  all  probability  a  combination  of  Mach- 
iavelli,  Rubini,  and  Masaniello.  Thanks  chiefly  to  the  divine 
gift  of  a  memory  which  inspires  the  moments  with  a  past,  a 
present,  and  a  future,  and  gives  the  sense  of  corporate  existence 
that  raises  man  above  the  otherwise  more  respectable  and  inno- 
cent brute,  all  that,  or  most  of  it,  is  changed. 

Again,  one  of  our  living  historians  finds  just  sympathy  in 
his  vigorous  insistence  on  our  true  ancestry,  on  our  being  the 
strongly  marked  heritors  in  language  and  genius  of  those  old 
English  seamen  who,  beholding  a  rich  country  with  a  most 
convenient  seaboard,  came,  doubtless  with  a  sense  of  divine 
warrant,  and  settled  themselves  on  this  or  the  other  side  of 


THE  MODERN  HEP!  HEP!  HEP!  147 

fertilizing  streams,  gradually  conquering  more  and  more  of 
the  pleasant  land  from  the  natives  who  knew  nothing  of  Odin, 
and  finally  making  unusually  clean  work  in  ridding  themselves 
of  those  prior  occupants.  "  Let  us, "  he  virtually  says,  "  let  us 
know  who  were  our  forefathers,  who  it  was  that  won  the  soil 
for  us,  and  brought  the  good  seed  of  those  institutions  through 
which  we  should  not  arrogantly  but  gratefully  feel  ourselves 
distinguished  among  the  nations  as  possessors  of  long-inherited 
freedom ;  let  us  not  keep  up  an  ignorant  kind  of  naming  which 
disguises  our  true  affinities  of  blood  and  language,  but  let  us 
see  thoroughly  what  sort  of  notions  and  traditions  our  fore- 
fathers had,  and  what  sort  of  song  inspired  them.  Let  the 
poetic  fragments  which  breathe  forth  their  fierce  bravery  in 
battle  and  their  trust  in  fierce  gods  who  helped  them,  be 
treasured  with  affectionate  reverence.  These  seafaring,  in- 
vading, self -asserting  men  were  the  English  of  old  time,  and 
were  our  fathers  who  did  rough  work  by  which  we  are  profit- 
ing. They  had  virtues  which  incorporated  themselves  in 
wholesome  usages  to  which  we  trace  our  own  political  bless- 
ings. Let  us  know  and  acknowledge  our  common  relationship 
to  them,  and  be  thankful  that  over  and  above  the  affections 
and  duties  which  spring  from  our  manhood,  we  have  the  closer 
and  more  constantly  guiding  duties  which  belong  to  us  as 
Englishmen. " 

To  this  view  of  our  nationality  most  persons  who  have  feel- 
ing and  understanding  enough  to  be  conscious  of  the  connec- 
tion between  the  patriotic  affection  and  every  other  affection 
which  lifts  us  above  emigrating  rats  and  free-loving  baboons, 
will  be  disposed  to  say  Amen.  True,  we  are  not  indebted 
to  those  ancestors  for  our  religion :  we  are  rather  proud  of 
having  got  that  illumination  from  elsewhere.  The  men  who 
planted  our  nation  were  not  Christians,  though  they  began 
their  work  centuries  after  Christ ;  and  they  had  a  decided  ob- 
jection to  Christianity  when  it  was  first  proposed  to  them: 
they  were  not  monotheists,  and  their  religion  was  the  reverse 
of  spiritual.  But  since  we  have  been  fortunate  enough  to 
keep  the  island-home  they  won  for  us,  and  have  been  on  the 
whole  a  prosperous  people,  rather  continuing  the  plan  of  in- 
yading  and  spoiling  other  lands  than  being  forced  to  beg  for 


148  THEOPHRA8TUS  SUCH. 

* 

shelter  in  them,  nobody  has  reproached  us  because  our  fathers 
thirteen  hundred  years  ago  worshipped  Odin,  massacred  Brit- 
ons, and  were  with  difficulty  persuaded  to  accept  Christianity, 
knowing  nothing  of  Hebrew  history  and  the  reasons  why  Christ 
should  be  received  as  the  Saviour  of  mankind.  The  Red  In- 
dians, not  liking  us  when  we  settled  among  them,  might  have 
been  willing  to  fling  such  facts  in  our  faces,  but  they  were  too 
ignorant,  and  besides,  their  opinions  did  not  signify,  because 
we  were  able,  if  we  liked,  to  exterminate  them.  The  Hindoos 
also  have  doubtless  had  their  rancors  against  us  and  still  en- 
tertain enough  ill  will  to  make  unfavorable  remarks  on  our 
character,  especially  as  to  our  historic  rapacity  and  arrogant 
notions  of  our  own  superiority ;  they  perhaps  do  not  admire 
the  usual  English  profile,  and  they  are  not  converted  to  our 
way  of  feeding :  but  though  we  are  a  small  number  of  an  alien 
race  profiting  by  the  territory  and  produce  of  these  prejudiced 
people,  they  are  unable  to  turn  us  out;  at  least,  when  they 
tried  we  showed  them  their  mistake.  We  do  not  call  our- 
selves a  dispersed  and  a  punished  people :  we  are  a  colonizing 
people,  and  it  is  we  wio  have  punished  others. 

Still  the  historian  guides  us  rightly  in  urging  us  to  dwell  on 
the  virtues  of  our  ancestors  with  emulation,  and  to  cherish  our 
sense  of  a  common  descent  as  a  bond  of  obligation.  The  emi- 
nence, the  nobleness  of  a  people,  depends  on  its  capability  of 
being  stirred  by  memories,  and  of  striving  for  what  we  call 
spiritual  ends — ends  which  consist  not  ir  immediate  material 
possession,  but  in  the  satisfaction  of  a  great  feeling  that 
animates  the  collective  body  as  with  one  soul.  A  people  hav- 
ing the  seed  of  worthiness  in  it  must  feel  an  answering  thrill 
when  it  is  adjured  by  the  deaths  of  its  heroes  who  died  to  pre- 
serve its  national  existence;  when  it  is  reminded  of  its  small 
beginnings  and  gradual  growth  through  past  labors  and  strug- 
gles, such  as  are  still  demanded  of  it  in  order  that  the  freedom 
and  well-beirig  thus  inherited  may  be  transmitted  unimpaired 
to  children  and  children's  children;  when  an  appeal  against 
the  permission  of  injustice  is  made  to  great  precedents  in  its 
history  and  to  the  better  genius  breathing  in  its  institutions. 
It  is  this  living  force  of  sentiment  in  common  which  makes  a 
national  consciouanesss.  Nations  so  moved  will  resist;  con- 


THE  MODERN  HEP!  HEP!  HEP!  149 

quest  with  the  very  breasts  of  their  women,  will  pay  their 
millions  and  their  blood  to  abolish  slavery,  will  share  priva- 
tion in  famine  and  all  calamity,  will  produce  poets  to  sing 
"  some  great  story  of  a  man, "  and  thinkers  whose  theories  will 
bear  the  test  of  action.  An  individual  man,  to  be  harmoni- 
ously great,  must  belong  to  a  nation  of  this  order,  if  not  in 
actual  existence  yet  existing  in  the  past,  in  memory,  as  a  de- 
parted, invisible,  beloved  ideal,  once  a  reality,  and  perhaps  to 
be  restored.  A  common  humanity  is  not  yet  enough  to  feed 
the  rich  blood  of  various  activity  which  makes  a  complete  man. 
The  time  is  not  come  for  cosmopolitanism  to  be  highly  virtu- 
ous, any  more  than  for  communism  to  suffice  for  social  energy. 
I  am  not  bound  to  feel  for  a  Chinaman  as  I  feel  for  my  fellow- 
countryman  :  I  am  bound  not  to  demoralize  him  with  opium, 
not  to  xjornpel  him  to  my  will  by  destroying  or  plundering  the 
fruits  of  his  labor  on  the  alleged  ground  that  he  is  not  cosmo- 
politan enough,  and  not  to  insult  him  for  his  want  of  my  tail- 
oring and  religion  when  he  appears  as  a  peaceable  visitor  on 
the  London  pavement.  It  is  admirable  in  a  Briton  with  a 
good  purpose  to  learn  Chinese,  but  it  would  not  be  a  proof  of 
fine  intellect  in  him  to  taste  Chinese  poetry  in  the  original 
more  than  he  tastes  the  poetry  of  his  own  tongue.  Affection, 
intelligence,  duty,  radiate  from  a  centre,  and  nature  has  de- 
cided that  for  us  English  folk  that  centre  can  be  neither  China 
nor  Peru.  Most  of  us  feel  this  unreflectingly ;  for  the  affecta- 
tion of  undervaluing  everything  native,  and  being  too  fine  for 
one's  own  country,  belongs  only  to  a  few  minds  of  no  danger- 
ous leverage.  What  is  wanting  is,  that  we  should  recognize 
a  corresponding  attachment  to  nationality  as  legitimate  in  every 
other  people,  and  understand  that  its  absence  is  a  privation  of 
the  greatest  good. 

For,  to  repeat,  not  only  the  nobleness  of  a  nation  depends 
on  the  presence  of  this  national  consciousness,  but  also  the  no- 
bleness of  each  individual  citizen.  Our  dignity  and  rectitude 
are  proportioned  to  our  sense  of  relationship  with  something 
great,  admirable,  pregnant  with  high  possibilities,  worthy  of 
sacrifice,  a  continual  inspiration  to  self-repression  and  disci- 
pline by  the  presentation  of  aims  larger  and  more  attractive  to 
our  generous  part  than  the  securing  of  personal  ease  or  pros- 


150  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

perity.  And  a  people  possessing  this  good  should  surely  feel 
not  only  a  ready  sympathy  with  the  effort  of  those  who,  hav- 
ing lost  the  good,  strive  to  regain  it,  but  a  profound  pity  for 
any  degradation  resulting  from  its  loss;  nay,  something  more 
than  pity  when  happier  nationalities  have  made  victims  of 
the  unfortunate  whose  memories  nevertheless  are  the  very 
fountain  to  which  the  persecutors  trace  their  most  vaunted 
blessings. 

These  nations  are  familiar :  few  will  deny  them  in  the  ab- 
stract, and  many  are  found  loudly  asserting  them  in  relation 
to  this  or  the  other  particular  case.  But  here  as  elsewhere,  in 
the  ardent  application  of  ideas,  there  is  a  notable  lack  of  sim- 
ple comparison  or  sensibility  to  resemblance.  The  European 
world  has  long  been  used  to  consider  the  Jews  as  altogether 
exceptional,  and  it  has  followed  naturally  enough  that  they 
have  been  excepted  from  the  rules  of  justice  and  mercy,  which 
are  based  on  human  likeness.  But  to  consider  a  people  whose 
ideas  have  determined  the  religion  of  half  the  world,  and  that 
the  more  cultivated  half,  and  who  made  the  most  eminent 
struggle  against  the  power  of  Rome,  as  a  purely  exceptional 
race,  is  a  demoralizing  offence  against  rational  knowledge,  a 
stultifying  inconsistency  in  historical  interpretation.  Every 
nation  of  forcible  character — i.e.,  of  strongly  marked  charac- 
teristics, is  so  far  exceptional.  The  distinctive  note  of  each 
bird-species  is  in  this  sense  exceptional,  but  the  necessary 
ground  of  such  distinction  is  a  deeper  likeness.  The  super- 
lative peculiarity  in  the  Jews  admitted,  our  affinity  with  them 
is  only  the  more  apparent  when  the  elements  |of  their  pecu- 
liarity are  discerned. 

From  whatever  point  of  view  the  writings  of  the  Old  Testa- 
ment may  be  regarded,  the  picture  they  present  of  a  national 
development  is  of  high  interest  and  speciality,  nor  can  their 
historic  momentousness  be  much  affected  by  any  varieties  of 
theory  as  to  the  relation  they  bear  to  the  New  Testament  or 
to  the  rise  and  constitution  of  Christianity.  Whether  we  ac- 
cept the  canonical  Hebrew  books  as  a  revelation  or  simply  as 
part  of  an  ancient  literature,  makes  no  difference  to  the  fact 
that  we  find  there  the  strongly  characterized  portraiture  of  a 
people  educated  from  an  earlier  or  later  period  to  a  sense  of 


THE   MODERN  HEP!   HEP!   HEP!  151 

separateness  unique  in  its  intensity,  a  people  taught  by  many 
concurrent  influences  to  identify  faithfulness  to  its  national 
traditions  with  the  highest  social  and  religious  blessings. 
Our  too  scanty  sources  of  Jewish  history,  from  the  return  un- 
der Ezra  to  the  beginning  of  the  desperate  resistance  against 
Rome,  show  us  the  heroic  and  triumphant  struggle  of  the  Mac- 
cabees, which  rescued  the  religion  and  independence  of  the 
nation  from  the  corrupting  sway  of  the  Syrian  Greeks,  adding 
to  the  glorious  sum  of  its  memorials,  and  stimulating  continu- 
ous efforts  of  a  more  peaceful  sort  to  maintain  and  develop 
that  national  life  which  the  heroes  had  fought  and  died  for,  by 
internal  measures  of  legal  administration  and  public  teaching. 
Thenceforth  the  virtuous  elements  of  the  Jewish  life  were  en- 
gaged, as  they  had  been  with  varying  aspects  during  the  long 
and  changeful  prophetic  period  and  the  restoration  under  Ezra, 
on  the  side  of  preserving  the  specific  national  character  against 
a  demoralizing  fusion  with  that  of  foreigners  whose  religion 
and  ritual  were  idolatrous  and  often  obscene.  There  was 
always  a  Foreign  party  reviling  the  National  party  as  narrow, 
and  sometimes  manifesting  their  own  breadth  in  extensive 
views  of  advancement  or  profit  to  themselves  by  flattery  of  a 
foreign  power.  Such  internal  conflict  naturally  tightened  the 
bands  of  conservatism,  which  needed  to  be  strong  if  it  were  to 
rescue  the  sacred  ark,  the  vital  spirit  of  a  small  nation — "  the 
smallest  of  the  nations  " — whose  territory  lay  on  the  high- 
way between  three  continents ;  and  when  the  dread  and  hatred 
of  foreign  sway  had  condensed  itself  into  dread  and  hatred  of 
the  Romans,  many  Conservatives  became  Zealots,  whose  chief 
mark  was  that  they  advocated  resistance  to  the  death  against 
the  submergence  of  their  nationality.  Much  might  be  said  on 
this  point  toward  distinguishing  the  desperate  struggle  against 
a  conquest  which  is  regarded  as  degradation  and  corruption, 
from  rash,  hopeless  insurrection  against  an  established  native 
government ;  and  for  my  part  (if  that  were  of  any  consequence) 
I  share  the  spirit  of  the  Zealots.  I  take  the  spectacle  of  the 
Jewish  people  defying  the  Roman  edict,  and  preferring  death 
by  starvation  or  the  sword  to  the  introduction  of  Caligula's 
deified  statue  into  the  temple,  as  a  sublime  type  of  steadfast- 
ness. But  all  that  need  be  noticed  here  is  the  continuity  of 


152  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

that  national  education  (by  outward  and  in  ward  circumstance) 
which  created  in  the  Jews  a  feeling  of  race,  a  sense  of  corpo- 
rate existence,  unique  in  its  intensity. 

But  not,  before  the  dispersion,  unique  in  essential  qualities. 
There  is  more  likeness  than  contrast  between  the  way  we 
English  got  our  island  and  the  way  the  Israelites  got  Canaan. 
We  have  not  been  noted  for  forming  a  low  estimate  of  our- 
selves in  comparison  with  foreigners,  or  for  admitting  that  our 
institutions  are  equalled  by  those  of  any  other  people  under 
the  sun.  Many  of  us  have  thought  that  our  sea-wall  is  a  spe- 
cially divine  arrangement  to  make  and  keep  us  a  nation  of  sea- 
kings  after  the  manner  of  our  forefathers,  secure  against  inva- 
sion and  able  to  invade  other  lands  when  we  need  them,  though 
they  may  lie  on  the  other  side  of  the  ocean.  Again,  it  has 
been  held  that  we  have  a  peculiar  destiny  as  a  Protestant  peo- 
ple, not  only  able  to  bruise  the  head  of  an  idolatrous  Chris- 
tianity in  the  midst  of  us,  but  fitted  as  possessors  of  the  most 
truth  and  the  most  tonnage  to  carry  our  purer  religion  over 
the  world  and  convert  mankind  to  our  way  of  thinking.  The 
Puritans,  asserting  their  liberty  to  restrain  tyrants,  found  the 
Hebrew  history  closely  symbolical  of  their  feelings  and  pur- 
pose ;  and  it  can  hardly  be  correct  to  cast  the  blame  of  their 
less  laudable  doings  on  the  writings  they  invoked,  since  their 
opponents  made  use  of  the  same  writings  for  different  ends, 
finding  there  a  strong  warrant  for  the  divine  right  of  kings  and 
the  denunciation  of  those  who,  like  Korah,  Dathan,  and  Abi- 
rarn,  took  on  themselves  the  office  of  the  priesthood,  which 
belonged  of  right  solely  to  Aaron  and  his  sons,  or,  in  other 
words,  to  men  ordained  by  the  [English  bishops.  We  must 
rather  refer  the  passionate  use  of  the  Hebrew  writings  to  affin- 
ities of  disposition  between  our  own  race  and  the  Jewish.  Is 
it  true  that  the  arrogance  of  a  Jew  was  so  immeasurably  be- 
yond that  of  a  Calvinist?  And  the  just  sympathy  and  admi- 
ration which  we  give  to  the  ancestors  who  resisted  the  op- 
pressive acts  of  our  native  kings,  and  by  resisting  rescued  or 
won  for  us  the  best  part  of  our  civil  and  religious  liberties — is 
it  justly  to  be  withheld  from  those  brave  and  steadfast  men 
of  Jewish  race  who  fought  and  died,  or  strove  by  wise  admin- 
istration to  resist,  the  oppression  and  corrupting  influences  of 


r  THE   MODERN  HEP!   HEP!   HEP!  153 

foreign  tyrants,  and  by  resisting,  rescued  the  nationality  which 
was  the  very  hearth  of  our  own  religion?  At  any  rate,  seeing 
that  the  Jews  were  more  specifically  than  any  other  nation 
educated  into  a  sense  of  their  supreme  moral  value,  the  chief 
matter  of  surprise  is  that  any  other  nation  is  found  to  rival 
them  in  this  form  of  self-confidence. 

More  exceptional — less  like  the  course  of  our  own  -history — 
has  been  their  dispersion  and  their  subsistence  as  a  separate 
people  through  ages  in  which  for  the  most  part  they  were  re- 
garded and  treated  very  much  as  beasts  hunted  for  the  sake  of 
their  skins,  or  of  a  valuable  secretion  peculiar  to  their  species. 
The  Jews  showed  a  talent  for  accumulating  what  was  an  ob- 
ject of  more  immediate  desire  to  Christians  than  animal  oils 
or  well-furred  skins,  and  their  cupidity  and  avarice  were  found 
at  once  particularly  hateful  and  particularly  useful :  hateful 
when  seen  as  a  reason  for  punishing  them  by  mulcting  or  rob- 
bery, useful  when  this  retributive  process  could  be  successfully 
carried  forward.  Kings  and  emperors  naturally  were  more 
alive  to  the  usefulness  of  subjects  who  could  gather  and  yield 
money ;  but  edicts  issued  to  protect "  the  King's  Jews  "  equally 
with  the  King's  game  from  being  harassed  and  hunted  by  the 
commonalty  were  only  slight  mitigations  to  the  deplorable  lot 
of  a  race  held  to  be  under  the  divine  curse,  and  had  little  force 
after  the  Crusades  began.  As  the  slave-holders  in  the  United 
States  counted  the  curse  on  Ham  a  justification  of  negro  slav- 
ery, so  the  curse  on  the  Jews  was  counted  a  justification  for 
hindering  them  from  pursuing  agriculture  and  handicrafts; 
for  marking  them  out  as  execrable  figures  by  a  peculiar  dress ; 
for  torturing  them  to  make  them  part  with  their  gains,  or  for 
more  gratuitously  spitting  at  them  and  pelting  them ;  for  taking 
it  as  certain  that  they  killed  and  ate  babies,  poisoned  the  wells, 
and  took  pains  to  spread  the  plague ;  for  putting  it  to  them 
whether  they  would  be  baptized  or  burned,  and  not  failing  to 
burn  and  massacre  them  when  they  were  obstinate;  but  also 
for  suspecting  them  of  disliking  the  baptism  when  they  had 
got  it,  and  then  burning  them  in  punishment  of  their  insin- 
cerity ;  finally,  for  hounding  them  by  tens  on  tens  of  thousands 
from  the  homes  where  they  had  found  shelter  for  centuries, 
and  inflicting  on  them  the  horrors  of  a  new  exile  and  a  new 


154  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

dispersion.  All  this  to  avenge  the  Saviour  of  mankind,  or 
else  to  compel  these  stiff-necked  people  to  acknowledge  a 
Master  whose  servants  showed  such  beneficent  effects  of  His 
teaching. 

With  a  people  so  treated  one  of  two  issues  was  possible  : 
either  from  being  of  feebler  nature  than  their  persecutors,  and 
caring  more  for  ease  than  for  the  sentiments  and  ideas  which 
constituted  their  distinctive  character,  they  would  everywhere 
give  way  to  pressure  and  get  rapidly  merged  in  the  populations 
around  them;  or,  being  endowed  with  uncommon  tenacity, 
physical  and  mental,  feeling  peculiarly  the  ties  of  inheritance 
both  in  blood  and  faith,  remembering  national  glories,  trusting 
in  their  recovery,  abhorring  apostasy,  able  to  bear  all  things  and 
hope  all  things  with  the  consciousness  of  being  steadfast  to 
spiritual  obligations,  the  kernel  of  their  number  would  harden 
into  an  inflexibility  more  and  more  insured  by  motive  and  habit. 
They  would  cherish  all  differences  that  marked  them  off  from 
their  hated  oppressors,  all  memories  that  consoled  them  with  a 
sense  of  virtual  though  unrecognized  superiority;  and  the  sep- 
arateness  which  was  made  their  badge  of  ignominy  would  be 
their  inward  pride,  their  source  of  fortifying  defiance.  Doubt- 
less such  a  people  would  get  confirmed  in  vices.  An  oppressive 
government  and  a  persecuting  religion,  while  breeding  vices  in 
those  who  hold  power,  are  well  known  to  breed  answering 
vices  in  those  who  are  powerless  and  suffering.  What  more 
direct  plan  than  the  course  presented  by  European  history 
could  have  been  pursued  in  order  to  give  the  Jews  a  spirit  of 
bitter  isolation,  of  scorn  for  the  wolfish  hypocrisy  that  made 
victims  of  them,  of  triumph  in  prospering  at  the  expense  of 
the  blunderers  who  stoned  them  away  from  the  open  paths  of 
industry? — or,  on  the  other  hand,  to  encourage  in  the  less  de- 
fiant a  lying  conformity,  a  pretence  of  conversion  for  the  sake 
of  the  social  advantages  attached  to  baptism,  an  outward  re- 
nunciation of  their  hereditary  ties  with  the  lack  of  real  love 
toward  the  society  and  creed  which  exacted  this  galling  trib- 
ute?— or  again,  in  the  most  unhappy  specimens  of  the  race,  to 
rear  transcendent  examples  of  odious  vice,  reckless  instruments 
of  rich  men  with  bad  propensities,  unscrupulous  grinders  of 
the  alien  people  who  wanted  to  grind  them  ? 


THE  MODERN  HEP!   HEP!   HEP!  155 

No  wonder  the  Jews  have  their  vices :  no  wonder  if  it  were 
proved  (which  it  has  not  hitherto  appeared  to  be)  that  some 
of  them  have  a  bad  pre-eminence  in  evil,  an  unrivalled  super- 
fluity of  naughtiness.  It  would  be  more  plausible  to  make  a 
wonder  of  the  virtues  which  have  prospered  among  them  under 
the  shadow  of  oppression.  But  instead  of  dwelling  on  these, 
or  treating  as  admitted  what  any  hardy  or  ignorant  person 
may  deny,  let  us  found  simply  on  the  loud  assertions  of  the 
hostile.  The  Jews,  it  is  said,  resisted  the  expansion  of  their 
own  religion  into  Christianity ;  they  were  in  the  habit  of  spit- 
ting on  the  cross ;  they  have  held  the  name  of  Christ  to  be 
Anathema.  Who  taught  them  that?  The  men  who  made 
Christianity  a  curse  to  them :  the  men  who  made  the  name  of 
Christ  a  symbol  for  the  spirit  of  vengeance,  and,  what  was 
worse,  made  the  execution  of  the  vengeance  a  pretext  for  sat- 
isfying their  own  savageness,  greed,  and  envy :  the  men  who 
sanctioned  with  the  name  of  Christ  a  barbaric  and  blundering 
copy  of  pagan  fatalism  in  taking  the  words  "  His  blood  be 
upon  us  and  on  our  children  "  as  a  divinely  appointed  verbal 
warrant  for  wreaking  cruelty  from  generation  to  generation  on 
the  people  from  whose  sacred  writings  Christ  drew  His  teach- 
ing. Strange  retrogression  in  the  professors  of  an  expanded 
religion,  boasting  an  illumination  beyond  the  spiritual  doc- 
trine of  Hebrew  prophets !  For  Hebrew  prophets  proclaimed 
a  God  who  demanded  mercy  rather' than  sacrifices.  The 
Christians  also  believed  that  God  delighted  not  in  the  blood  of 
rams  and  of  bulls,  but  they  apparently  conceived  Him  as  re- 
quiring for  His  satisfaction  the  sighs  and  groans,  the  blood 
and  roasted  flesh  of  men  whose  forefathers  had  misunderstood 
the  metaphorical  character  of  prophecies  which  spoke  of  spir- 
itual pre-eminence  under  the  figure  of  a  material  kingdom. 
Was  this  the  method  by  which  Christ  desired  His  title  to  the 
Messiahship  to  be  commended  to  the  hearts  and  understandings 
of  the  nation  in  which  He  was  born?  Many  of  His  sayings 
bear  the  stamp  of  that  patriotism  which  places  fellow-country- 
men in  the  inner  circle  of  affection  and  duty.  And  did  the 
words  "  Father,  forgive  them,  they  know  not  what  they  do, " 
refer  only  to  the  centurion  and  his  band,  a  tacit  exception 
being  made  of  every  Hebrew  there  present  from  the  mercy  of 


156  THEOPHRASTU8  SUCH. 

tne  Father  and  the  compassion  of  the  Son? — nay,  more,  of 
every  Hebrew  yet  to  come  who  remained  unconverted  after 
hearing  of  His  claim  to  the  Messiahship,  not  from  His  own 
lips  or  those  of  His  native  apostles,  but  from  the  lips  of  alien 
men  whom  cross,  creed,  and  baptism  had  left  cruel,  rapacious, 
and  debauched?  It  is  more  reverent  to  Christ  to  believe  that 
He  must  have  approved  the  Jewish  martyrs  who  deliberately 
chose  to  be  burned  or  massacred  rather  than  be  guilty  of  a 
blaspheming  lie,  more  than  He  approved  the  rabble  of  cru- 
saders who  robbed  and  murdered  them  in  His  name. 

But  these  remonstrances  seem  to  have  no  direct  application 
to  personages  who  take  up  the  attitude  of  philosophic  thinkers 
and  discriminating  critics,  professedly  accepting  Christianity 
from  a  rational  point  of  view  as  a  vehicle  of  the  highest  relig- 
ious and  moral  truth,  and  condemning  the  Jews  on  the  ground 
that  they  are  obstinate  adherents  of  an  outworn  creed,  main- 
tain themselves  in  moral  alienation  from  the  peoples  with 
whom  they  share  citizenship,  and  are  destitute  of  real  interest 
in  the  welfare  of  the  community  and  state  with  which  they 
are  thus  identified.  These  anti-Judaic  advocates  usually  be- 
long to  a  party  which  has  felt  itself  glorified  in  winning  for 
Jews,  as  well  as  Dissenters  and  Catholics,  the  full  privileges 
of  citizenship,  laying  open  to  them  every  path  to  distinction. 
At  one  time  the  voice  of  this  party  urged  that  differences  of 
creed  were  made  dangerous  only  by  the  denial  of  citizenship — 
that  you  must  make  a  man  a  citizen  before  he  could  feel  like 
one.  At  present,  apparently,  this  confidence  has  been  suc- 
ceeded by  a  sense  of  mistake :  there  is  a  regret  that  no  limit- 
ing clauses  were  insisted  on,  such  as  would  have  hindered  the 
Jews  from  coming  too  far  and  in  too  large  proportion  along 
those  opened  pathways ;  and  the  Roumanians  are  thought  to 
have  shown  an  enviable  wisdom  in  giving  them  as  little  chance 
as  possible.  But  then,  the  reflection  occurring  that  some  of 
the  most  objectionable  Jews  are  baptized  Christians,  it  is  obvi- 
ous that  such  clauses  would  have  been  insufficient,  and  the 
doctrine  that  you  can  turn  a  Jew  into  a  good  Christian  is  em- 
phatically retracted.  But  clearly,  these  liberal  gentlemen, 
too  late  enlightened  by  disagreeable  events,  must  yield  the 
pal  in  of  wise  foresight  to  those  who  argued  against  them  long 


THE  MODERN  HEP!   HEP!   HEP!  157 

ago  j  and  it  is  a  striking  spectacle  to  witness  minds  so  panting 
for  advancement  in  some  directions  that  they  are  ready  to 
force  it  on  an  unwilling  society,  in  this  instance  despairingly 
recurring  to  mediaeval  types  of  thinking — insisting  that  the 
Jews  are  made  viciously  cosmopolitan  by  holding  the  world's 
money-bag,  that  for  them  all  national  interests  are  resolved 
into  the  algebra  of  loans,  that  they  have  suffered  an  inward 
degradation  stamping  them  as  morally  inferior,  and — "  serve 
them  right,"  since  they  rejected  Christianity.  All  which  is 
mirrored  in  an  analogy,  namely,  that  of  the  Irish,  also  a  ser- 
vile race,  who  have  rejected  Protestantism  though  it  has  been 
repeatedly  urged  on  them  by  fire  and  sword  and  penal  laws, 
and  whose  place  in  the  moral  scale  may  be  judged  by  our  ad- 
vertisements, where  the  clause,  "  No  Irish  need  apply, "  par- 
allels the  sentence  which  for  many  polite  persons  sums  up  the 
question  of  Judaism — "I  never  did  like  the  Jews." 

It  is  certainly  worth  considering  whether  an  expatriated, 
denationalized  race,  used  for  ages  to  live  among  antipathetic 
populations,  must  not  inevitably  lack  some  conditions  of  noble- 
ness. If  they  drop  that  separateness  which  is  made  their  re- 
proach, they  may  be  in  danger  of  lapsing  into  a  cosmopolitan 
indifference  equivalent  to  cynicism,  and  of  missing  that  inward 
identification  with  the  nationality  immediately  around  them 
which  might  make  some  amends  for  their  inherited  privation. 
No  dispassionate  observer  can  deny  this  danger.  Why,  our 
own  countrymen  Avho  take  to  living  abroad  without  purpose 
or  function  to  keep  up  their  sense  of  fellowship  in  the  affairs 
of  their  own  land  are  rarely  good  specimens  of  moral  healthi- 
ness ;  still,  the  consciousness  of  having  a  native  country,  the 
birthplace  of  common  memories  and  habits  of  mind,  existing 
like  a  parental  hearth  quitted  but  beloved;  the  dignity  of 
being  included  in  a  people  which  has  a  part  in  the  comity  of 
nations  and  the  growing  federation  of  the  world;  that  sense  of 
special  belonging  which  is  the  root  of  human  virtues,  both 
public  and  private, — all  these  spiritual  links  may  preserve 
migratory  Englishmen  from  the  worst  consequences  of  their 
voluntary  dispersion.  Unquestionably  the  Jews,  having  been 
more  than  any  other  race  exposed  to  the  adverse  moral  influ- 
ences of  alienism,  must,  both  in  individuals  and  in  groups, 


158  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

have  suffered  some  corresponding  moral  degradation ;  but  in 
fact  they  have  escaped  with  less  of  abjectness  and  less  of  hard 
hostility  toward  the  nations  whose  hand  has  been  against 
them,  than  could  have  happened  in  the  case  of  a  people  who 
had  neither  their  adhesion  to  a  separate  religion  founded  on 
historic  memories,  nor  their  characteristic  family  affectionate- 
ness.  Tortured,  flogged,  spit  upon,  the  corpus  vile  on  which 
rage  or  wantonness  vented  themselves  with  impunity,  their 
name  flung  at  them  as  an  opprobrium  by  superstition,  hatred, 
and  contempt,  they  have  remained  proud  of  thir  origin.  Does 
any  one  call  this  an  evil  pride?  Perhaps  he  belongs  to  that 
order  of  man  who,  while  he  has  a  democratic  dislike  to  dukes 
and  earls,  wants  to  make  believe  that  his  father  was  an  idle 
gentleman,  when  in  fact  he  was  an  honorable  artisan,  or  who 
would  feel  flattered  to  be  taken  for  other  than  an  Englishman. 
It  is  possible  to  be  too  arrogant  about  our  blood  or  our  calling, 
but  that  arrogance  is  virtue  compared  with  such  mean  pretence. 
The  pride  which  identities  us  with  a  great  historic  body  is  a 
humanizing,  elevating  habit  of  mind,  inspiring  sacrifices  of 
individual  comfort,  gain,  or  other  selfish  ambition,  for  the 
sake  of  that  ideal  whole :  and  no  man  swayed  by  such  a  senti- 
ment can  become  completely  abject.  That  a  Jew  of  Smyrna, 
where  a  whip  is  carried  by  passengers  ready  to  flog  off  the  too 
officious  specimens  of  his  race,  can  still  be  proud  to  say,  "  I 
am  a  Jew,"  is  surely  a  fact  to  awaken  admiration  in  a  mind 
capable  of  understanding  what  we  may  call  the  ideal  forces  in 
human  history.  And  again,  a  varied,  impartial  observation 
of  the  Jews  in  different  countries  tends  to  the  impression  that 
they  have  a  predominant  kindliness  which  must  have  been 
deeply  ingrained  in  the  constitution  of  their  race  to  have  out- 
lasted'the  ages  of  persecution  and  oppression.  The  concen- 
tration of  their  joys  in  domestic  life  has  kept  up  in  them  the 
capacity  of  tenderness:  the  pity  for  the  fatherless  and  the 
widow,  the  care  for  the  women  and  the  little  ones,  blent  inti- 
mately with  their  religion,  is  a  well  of  mercy  that  cannot  long 
or  widely  be  pent  up  by  exclusiveness.  And  the  kindliness  of 
the  Jew  overflows  the  line  of  division  between  him  and  the 
Gentile.  On  the  whole,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  phenom- 
ena in  the  history  of  this  scattered  people,  made  for  ages  "  a 


THE  MODERN  HEP!   HEP!  HEP!  169 

scorn  and  a  hissing,"  is,  that  after  being  subjected  to  this 
process,  which  might  have  been  expected  to  be  in  every  sense 
deteriorating  and  vitiating,  they  have  come  out  of  it  (in  any 
estimate  which  allows  for  numerical  proportion)  rivalling  the 
nations  of  all  European  countries  in  healthiness  and  beauty  of 
physique,  in  practical  ability,  in  scientific  and  artistic  apti- 
tude, and  in  some  forms  of  ethical  value.  A  significant  indi- 
cation of  their  natural  rank  is  seen  in  the  fact  that  at  this 
moment,  the  leader  of  the  Liberal  party  in  Germany  is  a  Jew, 
the  leader  of  the  Eepublican  party  in  France  is  a  Jew,  and 
the  head  of  the  Conservative  ministry  in  England  is  a  Jew. 

And  here  it  is  that  we  find  the  ground  for  the  obvious  jeal- 
ousy which  is  now  stimulating  the  revived  expression  of  old 
antipathies.  "  The  Jews, "  it  is  felt,  "  have  a  dangerous  ten- 
dency to  get  the  uppermost  places  not  only  in  commerce  but 
in  political  life.  Their  monetary  hold  on  governments  is  tend- 
ing to  perpetuate  in  leading  Jews  a  spirit  of  universal  alienism 
(euphemistically  called  cosmopolitanism),  even  where  the  West 
has  given  them  a  full  share  in  civil  and  political  rights.  A 
people  with  oriental  sunlight  in  their  blood,  yet  capable  of 
being  everywhere  acclimatized,  they  have  a  force  and  tough- 
ness which  enables  them  to  carry  off  the  best  prizes ;  and  their 
wealth  is  likely  to  put  half  the  seats  in  Parliament  at  their 
disposal." 

There  is  truth  in  these  views  of  Jewish  social  and  political 
relations.  But  it  is  rather  too  late  for  liberal  pleaders  to  urge 
them  in  a  merely  vituperative  sense.  Do  they  propose  as  a 
remedy  for  the  impending  danger  of  our  healthier  national 
influences  getting  overridden  by  Jewish  predominance,  that  we 
should  repeal  our  emancipatory  laws?  Not  all  the  Germanic 
immigrants  who  have  been  settling  among  us  for  genera- 
tions, and  are  still  pouring  in  to  settle,  are  Jews,  but  thor- 
oughly Teutonic  and  more  or  less  Christian  craftsman,  mech- 
anicians, or  skilled  and  erudite  functionaries;  and  the  Semitic 
Christians  who  swarm  among  us  are  dangerously  like  their 
unconverted  brethren  in  complexion,  persistence,  and  wealth. 
Then  there  are  the  Greeks  who,  by  the  help  of  Phoenician 
blood  or  otherwise,  are  objectionably  strong  in  the  city.  Some 
judges  think  that  the  Scotch  are  more  numerous  and  prosper- 


160  THEOPHRA8TUS  SUCH. 

ous  here  in  the  South  than  is  quite  for  the  good  of  us  South- 
erners ;  and  the  early  inconvenience  felt  under  the  Stuarts  of 
being  quartered  upon  by  a  hungry  hard-working  people  with 
a  distinctive  accent  and  form  of  religion,  and  higher  cheek- 
bones than  English  taste  requires,  has  not  yet  been  quite  neu- 
tralized. As  for  the  Irish,  it  is  felt  in  high  quarters  that  we 
have  always  been  too  lenient  toward  them; — at  least,  if  they 
had  been  harried  a  little  more  there  might  not  have  been  so 
many  of  them  on  the  English  press,  of  which  they  divide  the 
power  with  the  Scotch,  thus  driving  many  Englishmen  to  hon- 
est and  ineloquent  labor. 

So  far  shall  we  be  carried  if  we  go  in  search  of  devices  to 
hinder  people  of  other  blood  than  our  own  from  getting  the 
advantage  of  dwelling  among  us. 

Let  it  be  admitted  that  it  is  a  calamity  to  the  English,  as  to 
any  other  great  historic  people,  to  undergo  a  premature  fusion 
with  immigrants  of  alien  blood;  that  its  distinctive  national 
characteristics  should  be  in  danger  of  obliteration  by  the  pre- 
dominating quality  of  foreign  settlers.  I  not  only  admit  this, 
I  am  ready  to  unite  in  groaning  over  the  threatened  danger. 
To  one  who  loves  his  native  language,  who  would  delight  to 
keep  our  rich  and  harmonious  English  uudefiled  by  foreign 
accent,  foreign  intonation,  and  those  foreign  tinctures  of  ver- 
bal meaning  which  tend  to  confuse  all  writing  and  discourse, 
it  is  an  affliction  as  harassing  as  the  climate,  that  on  our  stage, 
in  our  studios,  at  our  public  and  private  gatherings,  in  our 
offices,  warehouses,  and  workshops,  we  must  expect  to  hear  our 
beloved  English  with  its  words  clipped,  its  vowels  stretched 
and  twisted,  its  phrases  of  acquiescence  and  politeness,  of 
cordiality,  dissidence  or  argument,  delivered  always  in  the 
wrong  tones,  like  ill-rendered  melodies,  marred  beyond  recog- 
nition; that  there  should  be  a  general  ambition  to  speak  every 
language  except  our  mother  English,  which  persons  "  of  style  " 
are  not  ashamed  of  corrupting  with  slang,  false  foreign  equiv- 
alents, and  a  pronunciation  that  crushes  out  all  color  from  the 
vowels  and  jams  them  between  jostling  consonants.  An  an- 
cient Greek  might  not  like  to  be  resuscitated  for  the  sake  of 
hearing  Homer  read  in  our  universities,  still  he  would  at  least 
find  more  instructive  marvels  in  other  developments  to  be  wit- 


THE  MODERN  HEP!  HEP!  HEP!  161 

nessed  at  those  institutions;  but  a  modem  Englishman  is  in- 
vited from  his  after-dinner  repose  to  hear  Shakespeare  deliv- 
ered under  circumstances  which  offer  no  other  novelty  than 
some  novelty  of  false  intonation,  some  new  distribution  of 
strong  emphasis  on  prepositions,  some  new  misconception  of 
a  familiar  idiom.  Well !  it  is  our  inertness  that  is  in  fault,  our 
carelessness  of  excellence,  our  willing  ignorance  of  the  treas- 
ures that  lie  in  our  national  heritage,  while  we  are  agape  after 
what  is  foreign,  though  it  may  be  only  a  vile  imitation  of  what 
is  native. 

This  marring  of  our  speech,  however,  is  a  minor  evil  com- 
pared with  what  must  follow  from  the  predominance  of  wealth- 
acquiring  immigrants,  whose  appreciation  of  our  political  and 
social  life  must  often  be  as  approximative  or  fatally  erroneous 
as  their  delivery  of  our  language.  But  take  the  worst  issues 
— what  can  we  do  to  hinder  them?  Are  we  to  adopt  the  ex- 
clusiveness  for  which  we  have  punished  the  Chinese?  Are 
we  to  tear  the  glorious  flag  of  hospitality  which  has  made  our 
freedom  the  world- wide  blessing  of  the  oppressed?  It  is  not 
agreeable  to  find  foreign  accents  and  stumbling  locutions  pass- 
ing from  the  piquant  exception  to  the  general  rule  of  discourse. 
But  to  urge  on  that  account  that  we  should  spike  away  the 
peaceful  foreigner,  would  be  a  view  of  international  relations 
not  in  the  long  run  favorable  to  the  interests  of  our  fellow- 
countrymen  ;  for  we  are  at  least  equal  to  the  races  we  call  ob- 
trusive in  the  disposition  to  settle  wherever  money  is  to  be 
made  and  cheaply  idle  living  to  be  found.  In  meeting  the 
national  evils  which  are  brought  upon  us  by  the  onward  course 
of  the  world,  there  is  often  no  more  immediate  hope  or  resource 
than  that  of  striving  after  fuller  national  excellence,  which 
must  consist  in  the  moulding  of  more  excellent  individual  na- 
tives. The  tendency  of  things  is  toward  the  quicker  or  slower 
fusion  of  races.  It  is  impossible  to  arrest  this  tendency :  all 
we  can  do  is  to  moderate  its  course  so  as  to  hinder  it  from  de- 
grading the  moral  status  of  societies  by  a  too  rapid  effacement 
of  those  national  traditions  and  customs  which  are  the  language 
of  the  national  genius — the  deep  suckers  of  healthy  sentiment. 
Such  moderating  and  guidance  of  inevitable  movement  is 
worthy  of  all  effort.  And  it  is  in  this  sense  that  the  modern  in- 
11 


162  THEOPHRASTtJS  SUCH. 

sistence  on  the  idea  of  Nationalities  has  value.  That  any  people 
at  once  distinct  and  coherent  enough  to  form  a  state  should  be 
held  in  subjection  by  an  alien  antipathetic  government  has  been 
becoming  more  and  more  a  ground  of  sympathetic  indignation ; 
and  in  virtue  of  this,  at  least  one  great  State  has  been  added 
to  European  councils.  Nobody  now  complains  of  the  result  in 
this  case,  though  far-sighted  persons  see  the  need  to  limit 
analogy  by  discrimination.  We  have  to  consider  who  are  the 
stifled  people  and  who  the  stiflers  before  we  can  be  sure  of  our 
ground.  The  only  point  in  this  connection  on  which  English- 
men are  agreed  is,  that  England  itself  shall  not  be  subject  to 
foreign  rule.  The  fiery  resolve  to  resist  invasion,  though  with 
an  improvised  array  of  pitchforks,  is  felt  to  be  virtuous,  and 
to  be  worthy  of  a  historic  people  Why?  Because  there  is  a 
national  life  in  our  veins.  Because  there  is  something  specifi- 
cally English  which  we  feel  to  be  supremely  worth  striving 
for,  worth  dying  for,  rather  than  living  to  renounce  it.  Be- 
cause we  too  have  our  share — perhaps  a  principal  share — in 
that  spirit  of  separateness  which  has  not  yet  done  its  work  in 
the  education  of  mankind,  which  has  created  the  varying  gen- 
ius of  nations,  and,  like  the  Muses,  is  the  offspring  of  memory. 
Here,  as  everywhere  else,  the  human  task  seems  to  be  the 
discerning  and  adjustment  of  opposite  claims.  But  the  end 
can  hardly  be  achieved  by  urging  contradictory  reproaches, 
and  instead  of  laboring  after  discernment  as  a  preliminary  to  in- 
tervention, letting  our  zeal  burst  forth  according  to  a  capricious 
selection,  first  determined  accidentally  and  afterward  justified 
by  personal  predilection.  Not  only  John  Gilpin  and  his  wife, 
or  Edwin  and  Angelina,  seem  to  be  of  opinion  that  their  pref- 
erence or  dislike  of  Eussians,  Servians,  or  Greeks,  consequent, 
perhaps,  on  hotel  adventures,  has  something  to  do  with  the 
merits  of  the  Eastern  Question ;  even  in  a  higher  range  of  in- 
tellect and  enthusiasm  we  find  a  distribution  of  sympathy  or 
pity  for  sufferers  of  different  blood  or  votaries  of  differing 
religions,  strangely  unaccountable  on  any  other  ground  than  a 
fortuitous  direction  of  study  or  trivial  circumstances  of  travel. 
With  some  even  admirable  persons,  one  is  never  quite  sure  of 
any  particular  being  included  under  a  general  term.  A  pro- 
vincial physician,  it  is  said,  once  ordering  a  lady  patient  not 


MODERN  HEP!   HEP!  HEP!  163 

to  eat  salad,  was  asked  pleadingly  by  the  affectionate  husband 
whether  she  might  eat  lettuce,  or  cresses,  or  radishes;  The 
physician  had  too  rashly  believed  in  the  comprehensiveness  of 
the  word  "  salad,"  just  as  we,  if  not  enlightened  by  experience, 
might  believe  in  the  all-embracing  breadth  of  "  sympathy  with 
the  injured  and  oppressed."  What  mind  can  exhaust  the 
grounds  of  exception  which  lie  in  each  particular  case?  There 
is  understood  to  be  a  peculiar  odor  from  the  negro  body,  and 
we  know  that  some  persons,  too  rationalistic  to  feel  bound  by 
the  curse  on  Ham,  used  to  hint  very  strongly  that  this  odor 
determined  the  question  on  the  side  of  negro  slavery. 

And  this  is  the  usual  level  of  thinking  in  polite  society  con- 
cerning the  Jews.  Apart  from  theological  purposes,  it  seems 
to  be  held  surprising  that  anybody  should  take  an  interest  in 
the  history  of  a  people  whose  literature  has  furnished  all  our 
devotional  language ;  and  if  any  reference  is  made  to  their  past 
or  future  destinies  some  hearer  is  sure  to  state  as  a  relevant 
fact  which  may  assist  our  judgment,  that  she,  for  her  part, 
is  not  fond  of  them,  having  known  a  Mr.  Jacobson  who  was 
very  unpleasant,  or  that  he,  for  his  part,  thinks  meanly  of 
them  as  a  race,  though  on  inquiry  you  find  that  he  is  so  little 
acquainted  with  their  characteristics  that  he  is  astonished  to 
learn  how  many  persons  whom  he  has  blindly  admired  and 
applauded  are  Jews  to  the  backbone.  Again,  men  who  con- 
sider themselves  in  the  very  van  of  modern  advancement, 
knowing  history  and  the  latest  philosophies  of  history,  indi- 
cate their  contemptuous  surprise  that  any  one  should  entertain 
the  destiny  of  the  Jews  as  a  worthy  subject,  by  referring  to 
Moloch  and  their  own  agreement  with  the  theory  that  the  re- 
ligion of  Jehovah  was  merely  a  transformed  Moloch-worship, 
while  in  the  same  breath  they  are  glorifying  "  civilization  "  as 
a  transformed  tribal  existence  of  which  some  lineaments  are 
traceable  in  grim  marriage  customs  of  the  native  Australians. 
Are  these  erudite  persons  prepared  to  insist  that  the  name 
"  Father  "  should  no  longer  have  any  sanctity  for  us,  because 
in  their  view  of  likelihood  our  Aryan  ancestors  were  mere  im- 
provers on  a  state  of  things  in  which  nobody  knew  his  own 
father? 

For  less  theoretic  men,  ambitious  to  be  regarded  as  practi- 


164  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

cal  politicians,  the  value  of  the  Hebrew  race  has  been  nieasj 
ured  by  their  unfavorable  opinion  of  a  prime  minister  who  is  a 
Jew  by  lineage.  But  it  is  possible  to  form  a  very  ugly  opin- 
ion as  to  the  scrupulousness  of  Walpole,  or  of  Chatham ;  and 
in  any  case  I  think  Englishmen  would  refuse  to  accept  the 
character  and  doings  of  those  eighteenth  century  statesmen  as 
the  standard  of  value  for  the  English  people  and  the  part  they 
have  to  play  in  the  fortunes  of  mankind. 

If  we  are  to  consider  the  future  of  the  Jews  at  all,  it  seems 
reasonable  to  take  as  a  preliminary  question :  Are  they  des- 
tined to  complete  fusion  with  the  peoples  among  whom  they 
are  dispersed,  losing  every  remnant  of  a  distinctive  conscious- 
ness as  Jews;  or,  are  there  in  the  breadth  and  intensity  with 
which  the  feeling  of  separateness,  or  what  we  may  call  the 
organized  memory  of  a  national  consciousness,  actually  exists 
in  the  world-wide  Jewish  communities — the  seven  millions 
scattered  from  east  to  west — and  again,  are  there  in  the  polit- 
ical relations  of  the  world,  the  conditions  present  or  approach- 
ing for  the  restoration  of  a  Jewish  state  planted  on  the  old 
ground  as  a  centre  of  national  feeling,  a  source  of  dignifying 
protection,  a  special  channel  for  special  energies  which  may 
contribute  some  added  form  of  national  genius,  and  an  added 
voice  in  the  councils  of  the  world? 

They  are  among  us  everywhere ;  it  is  useless  to  say  we  are 
not  fond  of  them.  Perhaps  we  are  not  fond  of  proletaries 
and  their  tendency  to  form  Unions,  but  the  world  is  not  there- 
fore to  be  rid  of  them.  If  we  wish  to  free  ourselves  from  the 
inconveniences  that  we  have  to  complain  of,  whether  in  prole- 
taries or  in  Jews,  our  best  course  is  to  encourage  all  means  of 
improving  these  neighbors  who  elbow  us  in  a  thickening  crowd, 
and  of  sending  their  incommodious  energies  into  beneficent 
channels.  Why  are  we  so  eager  for  the  dignity  of  certain 
populations  of  whom  perhaps  we  have  never  seen  a  single 
specimen,  and  of  whose  history,  legend,  or  literature  we  have 
been  contentedly  ignorant  for  ages,  while  we  sneer  at  the  no- 
tion of  a  renovated  national  dignity  for  the  Jews,  whose  ways 
of  thinking  and  whose  very  verbal  forms  are  on  our  lips  in 
every  prayer  which  we  end  with  an  Amen?  Some  of  us  con- 
sider this  question  dismissed  when  they  have  said  that  the 


THE  MODERN  HEPl  HEP!  HEP!  165 

wealthiest  Jews  have  no  desire  to  forsake  their  European  pal- 
aces, and  go  to  live  in  Jerusalem.  But  in  a  return  from  exile, 
in  the  restoration  of  a  people,  the  question  is  not  whether  cer- 
tain rich  men  will  choose  to  remain  behind,  but  whether  there 
will  be  found  worthy  men  who  will  choose  to  lead  the  return. 
Plenty  of  prosperous  Jews  remained  in  Babylon  when  Ezra 
marshalled  his  band  of  forty  thousand  and  began  a  new  glori- 
ous epoch  in  the  history  of  his  race,  making  the  preparation 
for  that  epoch  in  the  history  of  the  world  which  has  been  held 
glorious  enough  to  be  dated  from  forevermore.  The  hinge  of 
possibility  is  simply  the  existence  of  an  adequate  community 
of  feeling  as  well  as  widespread  need  in  the  Jewish  race,  and 
the  hope  that  among  its  finer  specimens  there  may  arise  some 
men  of  instruction  and  ardent  public  spirit,  some  new  Ezras, 
some  modern  Maccabees,  who  will  know  how  to  use  all  favor- 
ing outward  conditions,  how  to  triumph  by  heroic  exampler 
over  the  indifference  of  their  fellows  and  the  scorn  of  their 
foes,  and  will  steadfastly  set  their  faces  toward  making  their 
people  once  more  one  among  the  nations. 

Formerly,  evangelical  orthodoxy  was  prone  to  dwell  on  the 
fulfilment  of  prophecy  in  the  "  restoration  of  the  Jews. "  Such 
interpretation  of  the  prophets  is  less  in  vogue  now.  The  domi- 
nant' mode  is  to  insist  on  a  Christianity  that  disowns  its 
origin,  that  is  not  a  substantial  growth  having  a  genealogy, 
but  is  a  vaporous  reflex  of  modern  notion.  The  Christ  of 
Matthew  had  the  heart  of  a  Jew — "  Go  ye  first  to  the  lost 
sheep  of  the  house  of  Israel."  The  Apostle  of  the  Gentiles 
had  the  heart  of  a  Jew :  "  For  I  could  wish  that  myself  were 
accursed  from  Christ  for  my  brethren,  my  kinsmen  according 
to  the  flesh :  who  are  Israelites ;  to  whom  pertaineth  the  adop- 
tion, and  the  glory,  and  the  covenants,  and  the  giving  of  the 
law,  and  the  service  of  God,  and  the  promises ;  whose  are  the 
fathers,  and  of  whom  as  concerning  the  flesh  Christ  came." 
Modern  apostles,  extolling  Christianity,  are  found  using  a  dif- 
ferent tone :  they  prefer  the  mediaeval  cry  translated  into  mod- 
ern phrase.  But  the  mediaeval  cry  too  was  in  substance  very 
ancient — more  ancient  than  the  days  of  Augustus.  Pagans  in 
successive  ages  said,  "  These  people  are  unlike  us,  and  refuse 
to  be  made  like  us:  let  us  punish  them."  The  Jews  were 


166  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

steadfast  in  their  separateness,  and  through  that  separateness 
Christianity  was  born.  A  modern  book  on  Liberty  has  main- 
tained that  from  the  freedom  of  individual  men  to  persist  in 
idiosyncrasies  the  world  may  be  enriched.  Why  should  we 
not  apply  this  argument  to  the  idiosyncrasy  of  a  nation,  and 
pause  in  our  haste  to  hoot  it  down?  There  is  still  a  great 
function  for  the  steadfastness  of  the  Jew :  not  that  he  should 
shut  out  the  utmost  illumination  which  knowledge  can  throw 
on  his  national  history,  but  that  he  should  cherish  the  store 
of  inheritance  which  that  history  has  left  him.  Every  Jew 
should  be  conscious  that  he  is  one  of  a  multitude  possessing 
common  objects  of  piety  in  the  immortal  achievements  and 
immortal  sorrows  of  ancestors  who  have  transmitted  to  them  a 
physical  and  mental  type  strong  enough,  eminent  enough  in 
faculties,  pregnant  enough  with  peculiar  promise,  to  constitute 
a  new  beneficent  individuality  among  the  nations,  and,  by  con- 
futing the  traditions  of  scorn,  nobly  avenge  the  wrongs  done 
to  their  Fathers. 

There  is  a  sense  in  which  the  worthy  child  of  a  nation  that 
has  brought  forth  illustrious  prophets,  high  and  unique  among 
the  poets  of  the  world,  is  bound  by  their  visions. 

Is  bound? 

Yes,  for  the  effective  bound  of  human  action  is  feeling,  and 
the  worthy  child  of  a  people  owning  the  triple  name  of  He- 
brew, Israelite,  and  Jew,  feels  his  kinship  with  the  glories  and 
the  sorrows,  the  degradation  and  the  possible  renovation  of  his 
national  family. 

Will  any  one  teach  the  nullification  of  this  feeling  and  call 
bis  doctrine  a  philosophy?  He  will  teach  a  blinding  supersti- 
tion— the  superstition  that  a  theory  of  human  well-being  can 
be  constructed  in  disregard  of  the  influences  which  have  made 
us  human. 


THE   END. 


Foleshill  (Home  of  George  Eliot  from  1841  to  1849).— Frontis. 

Eliot's  Essays 


ESSAYS   AND   LEAVES    FROM  A 
NOTE-BOOK 


CONTENTS. 


ESSAYS. 

nun 

WORLDLINESS   AND    OTHER-WORLDLINESS  :    THE   POET    YOUNG,  .         7 

("  Westminster  Review,"  1857.) 

GERMAN  WIT  :  HEINRICH  HEINE, 65 

( "Westminster  Review,"  1856.) 

EVANGELICAL  TEACHING  :  DR.  CUMMING, 92 

("  Westminster  Review,"  1855.) 

THE  INFLUENCE  OF  RATIONALISM  :  LECKY'S  HISTORY,     .         .         .  123 

("  Fortnightly  Review,"  1865.) 

THE  NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  GERMAN  LIFE  :  RIEHL,          .         .        .  139 

("  Westminster  Review,"  1856.) 

THREE  MONTHS  IN  WEIMAR, 174 

("  Eraser's  Magazine,"  1855.) 

ADDRESS  TO  WORKING  MEN,  BY  FELIX  HOLT,         ....  192 

("  Blackwood's  Magazine,"  1868.) 

LEAVES  FROM  A  NOTE-BOOK. 

AUTHORSHIP, 208 

JUDGMENTS  ON  AUTHORS, 213 

STORY  TELLING, 215 

HISTORIC  IMAGINATION, 217 

VALUE  IN  ORIGINALITY, 219 

To  THE  PROSAIC  ALL  THINGS  ARE  PROSAIC,  .....  219 


4  CONTENTS. 

PACT 

"  DE AH  RELIGIOUS  LOVE," .  220 

W*  MAKE  OUR  OWN  PRECEDENTS, 220 

BIRTH  OF  TOLERANCE, 220 

FELIX  Qui  NON  POTUIT, 221 

DITINB  GRACE  A  REAL  EMANATION,         ......  221 

"A  FINE  EXCESS."     FEELING  Is  ENERGY,      .        .        .        .        .222 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

ESSAYS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 
Foleshill  (Home  of  George  Eliot  from  1841  to  1849) . . .  .Frontispiece. 

PAGE 

Portrait  of  Heine 55 

Portrait  of  Goethe 175 

Rosehill  (a  favorite  resting  place  of  George  Eliot) 208 


Essays  of  George  Eliot. 


PREFACE. 


WISHES  have  often  been  expressed  that  the  articles  known 
to  have  been  written  by  George  Eliot  in  the  "  Westminster 
Review "  before  she  had  become  famous  under  that  pseudo- 
nym, should  be  republished.  Those  wishes  are  now  grati- 
fied— as  far,  at  any  rate,  as  it  is  possible  to  gratify  them. 
For  it  was  not  George  Eliot's  desire  that  the  whole  of  those 
articles  should  be  rescued  from  oblivion.  And  in  order  that 
there  might  be  no  doubt  on  the  subject,  she  made  some  time 
before  her  death  a  collection  of  such  of  her  fugitive  writings 
as  she  considered  deserving  of  a  permanent  form;  carefully 
revised  them  for  the  press ;  and  left  them,  in  the  order  in 
which  they  here  appear,  with  written  injunctions  that  no 
other  pieces  written  by  her,  of  date  prior  to  1857,  should  be 
republished. 

It  will  thus  be  seen  that  the  present  collection  of  Essays 
has  the  weight  of  her  sanction,  and  has  had,  moreover,  the 
advantage  of  such  corrections  and  alterations  as  a  revision 
long  subsequent  to  the  period  of  writing  may  have  suggested 
to  her. 

The  opportunity  afforded  by  this  republication  seemed  a 
suitable  one  for  giving  to  the  world  some  "  notes, "  as  George 
Eliot  simply  called  them,  which  belong  to  a  much  later  period, 
and  which  have  not  been  previously  published.  The  exact 
date  of  their  writing  cannot  be  fixed  with  any  certainty,  but 
it  must  have  been  some  time  between  the  appearance  of  "  Mid- 
dlemarch"  and  that  of  "  Theophrastus  Such."  They  were 
probably  written  without  any  distinct  view  to  publication — 
some  of  them  for  the  satisfaction  of  her  own  mind ;  others 
perhaps  as  memoranda,  and  with  an  idea  of  working  them  out 


6  PREFACE. 

more  fully  at  some  later  time.  It  may  be  of  interest  to  know 
that,  besides  the  "  notes "  here  given,  the  note-book  contains 
four  which  appeared  in  "  Theophrastus  Such, "  three  of  them 
practically  as  they  there  stand ;  and  it  is  not  impossible  that 
some  of  those  in  the  present  volume  might  also  have  been  so 
utilized  had  they  not  happened  to  fall  outside  the  general 
scope  of  the  work.  The  marginal  titles  are  George  Eliot's 
own,  but  for  the  general  title,  "  Leaves  from  a  Note-Book, "  I 
am  responsible. 

I  need  only  add  that,  in  publishing  these  notes,  I  have  the 
complete  concurrence  of  my  friend  Mr.  Cross. 

CHARLES  LEE  LEWES, 

HIGHGKA.TE,  December  1883. 


ESSAYS. 


WOBLDLESTESS   AND  OTHER- WOKLDLINESS :     THE 
POET   YOUNG. 

THE  study  of  men,  as  they  have  appeared  in  different  ages, 
and  under  various  social  conditions,  may  be  considered  as  the 
natural  history  of  the  race.  Let  us,  then,  for  a  moment  im- 
agine ourselves,  as  students  of  this  natural  history,  "  dredg- 
ing "  the  first  half  of  the  eighteenth  century  in  search  of  speci- 
mens. About  the  year  1730  we  have  hauled  up  a  remarkable 
individual  of  the  species  divine — a  surprising  name,  consid- 
ering the  nature  of  the  animal  before  us;  but  we  are  used  to 
unsuitable  names  in  natural  history.  Let  us  examine  this  in- 
dividual at  our  leisure.  He  is  on  the  verge  of  fifty,  and  has 
recently  undergone  his  metamorphosis  into  the  clerical  form. 
Rather  a  paradoxical  specimen,  if  you  observe  him  narrowly : 
a  sort  of  cross  between  a  sycophant  and  a  psalmist ;  a  poet 
whose  imagination  is  alternately  fired  by  the  "  Last  Day  "  and 
by  a  creation  of  peers,  who  fluctuates  between  rhapsodic  ap- 
plause of  King  George  and  rhapsodic  applause  of  Jehovah. 
After  spending  "  a  foolish  youth,  the  sport  of  peers  and  poets," 
after  being  a  hanger-on  of  the  profligate  Duke  of  Wharton, 
after  aiming  in  vain  at  a  parliamentary  career,  and  angling  for 
pensions  and  preferment  with  fulsome  dedications  and  fustian 
odes,  he  is  a  little  disgusted  with  his  imperfect  success,  and 
has  determined  to  retire  from  the  general  mendicancy  busi- 
ness to  a  particular  branch;  in  other  words,  he  has  deter- 
mined on  that  renunciation  of  the  world  implied  in  "  taking 
orders, "  with  the  prospect  of  a  good  living  and  an  advanta- 
geous matrimonial  connection.  And  he  personifies  the  nicest 


8  WORLDLINESS  AND  OTHER- WORLDLINESS  •. 

balance  of  temporalities  and  spiritualities.  He  is  equally  im- 
pressed with  the  momentousness  of  death  and  of  burial  fees; 
he  languishes  at  once  for  immortal  life  and  for  "  livings  " ;  he 
has  a  fervid  attachment  to  patrons  in  general,  but  on  the  whole 
prefers  the  Almighty.  He  will  teach,  with  something  more 
than  official  conviction,  the  nothingness  of  earthly  things ;  and 
he  will  feel  something  more  than  private  disgust  if  his  merito- 
rious efforts  in  directing  men's  attention  to  another  world  are 
not  rewarded  by  substantial  preferment  iiv  this.  His  secular 
man  believes  in  cambric  bands  and  silk  stockings  as  character- 
istic attire  for  "  an  ornament  of  religion  and  virtue  " ;  hopes 
courtiers  will  never  forget  to  copy  Sir  Robert  TYalpole;  and 
writes  begging-letters  to  the  King's  mistress.  His  spiritual 
man  recognizes  no  motives  more  familiar  than  Golgotha  and 
"  the  skies  " ;  it  walks  in  graveyards,  or  it  soars  among  the 
stars.  His  religion  exhausts  itself  in  ejaculations  and  rebukes, 
and  knows  no  medium  between  the  ecstatic  and  the  sententious. 
If  it  were  not  for  the  prospect  of  immortality,  he  considers, 
it  would  be  wise  and  agreeable  to  be  indecent,  or  to  murder 
one's  father;  and,  heaven  apart,  it  would  be  extremely  irra- 
tional in-  any  man  not  to  be  a  knave.  Man,  he  thinks,  is  a  com- 
pound of  the  angel  and  the  brute :  the  brute  is  to  be  humbled 
by  being  reminded  of  its  "  relation  to  the  stalls, "  and  frightened 
into  moderation  by  the  contemplation  of  death-beds  and  skulls ; 
the  angel  is  to  be  developed  by  vituperating  this  world  and  ex- 
alting the  next ;  and  by  this  double  process  you  get  the  Chris- 
tian— "the  highest  style  of  man."  With  all  this,  our  new- 
made  divine  is  an  unmistakable  poet.  To  a  clay  compounded 
chiefly  of  the  worldling  and  the  rhetorician,  there  is  added  a 
real  spark  of  Promethean  fire.  He  will  one  day  clothe  his 
apostrophes  and  objurgations,  his  astronomical  religion  and  his 
charnel-house  morality,  in  lasting  verse,  which  will  stand,  like 
a  Juggernaut  made  of  gold  and  jewels,  at  once  magnificent  and 
repulsive :  for  this  divine  is  Edward  Young,  the  future  author 
of  the  "Night  Thoughts." 

Judging  from  Young's  works,  one  might  imagine  that  the 
preacher  had  been  organized  in  him  by  hereditary  transmis- 
sion through  a  long  line  of  clerical  forefathers, — that  the  dia- 
monds of  the  "  Night  Thoughts  "  had  been  slowly  condensed 


THE  POET  YOUNG.  9 

from  the  charcoal  of  ancestral  sermons.  Yet  it  was  not  so. 
His  grandfather,  apparently,  wrote  himself  gentleman,  not 
clerk;  and  there  is  no  evidence  that  preaching  had  run  in  the 
family  blood  before  it  took  that  turn  in  the  person  of  the  poet's 
father,  who  was  quadruply  clerical,  being  at  once  rector,  preb- 
endary, court  chaplain,  and  dean.  Young  was  born  at  his 
father's  rectory  of  Upham,  in  1681.  In  due  time  the  boy 
went  to  Winchester  College,  and  subsequently,  though  not  till 
he  was  twenty -two,  to  Oxford,  where,  for  his  father's  sake, 
he  was  befriended  by  the  wardens  of  two  colleges,  and  in 
1708,  three  years  after  his  father' s  death,  nominated  by  Arch- 
bishop Tenison  to  a  law  fellowship  at  All  Souls.  Of  Young's 
life  at  Oxford  in  these  years,  hardly  anything  is  known.  His 
biographer,  Croft,  has  nothing  to  tell  us  but  the  vague  report 
that,  when  "  Young  found  himself  independent  and  his  own 
master  at  All  Souls,  he  was  not  the  ornament  to  religion  and 
morality  that  he  afterward  became,"  and  the  perhaps  apocry- 
phal anecdote,  that  Tindal,  the  atheist,  confessed  himself  em- 
barrassed by  the  originality  of  Young's  arguments.  Both  the 
report  and  the  anecdote,  however,  are  borne  out  by  indirect 
evidence.  As  to  the  latter,  Young  has  left  us  sufficient  proof 
that  he  was  fond  of  arguing  on  the  theological  side,  and  that 
he  had  his  own  way  of  treating  old  subjects.  As  to  the  former, 
we  learn  that  Pope,  after  saying  other  things  which  we  know 
to  be  true  of  Young,  added,  that  he  passed  "  a  foolish  youth, 
the  sport  of  peers  and  poets  " ;  and,  from  all  the  indications 
we  possess  of  his  career  till  he  was  nearly  fifty,  we  are  in- 
clined to  think  that  Pope's  statement  only  errs  by  defect,  and 
that  he  should  rather  have  said,  t(  a  foolish  youth  and  middle 
age."  It  is  not  likely  that  Young  was  a  very  hard  student, 
for  he  impressed  Johnson,  who  caw  him  in  his  old  age,  as 
"not  a  great  scholar,"  and  as  surprisingly  ignorant  of  what 
Johnson  thought  " quite  common  maxims "  in  literature;  and 
there  is  no  evidence  that  he  filled  either  his  leisure  or  his 
purse  by  taking  pupils.  His  career  as  an  author  did  not  be- 
gin till  he  was  nearly  thirty,  even  dating  from  the  publication 
of  a  portion  of  the  "  Last  Day, "  in  the  Tatler;  so  that  he  could 
hardly  have  been  absorbed  in  composition.  But  where  the 
fully  developed  insect  is  parasitic,  we  believe  the  larva  is  usu- 


10          WORLDLINESS  AND  OTHER-WORLDLINESS : 

ally  parasitic  also,  and  we  shall  probably  not  be  far  wrong  in 
supposing  that  Young  at  Oxford,  as  elsewhere,  spent  a  good 
deal  of  his  time  in  hanging  about  possible  and  actual  patrons, 
and  accommodating  himself  to  their  habits  with  considerable 
flexibility  of  conscience  and  of  tongue;  being  none  the  less 
ready,  upon  occasion,  to  present  himself  as  the  champion  of 
theology,  and  to  rhapsodize  at  convenient  moments  in  the  com- 
pany of  the  skies  or  of  skulls.  That  brilliant  profligate,  the 
Duke  of  Wharton,  to  whom  Young  afterward  clung  as  his  chief 
patron,  was  at  this  time  a  mere  boy ;  and,  though  it  is  proba- 
ble that  their  intimacy  had  already  begun,  since  the  Duke's 
father  and  mother  were  friends  of  the  old  Dean,  that  intimacy 
ought  not  to  aggravate  any  unfavorable  inference  as  to  Young's 
Oxford  life.  It  is  less  likely  that  he  fell  into  any  exceptional 
vice,  than  that  he  differed  from  the  men  around  him  chiefly 
in  his  episodes  of  theological  advocacy  and  rhapsodic  solemn- 
ity. He  probably  sowed  his  wild  oats  after  the  coarse  fashion 
of  his  times,  for  he  has  left  us  sufficient  evidence  that  his 
moral  sense  was  not  delicate ;  but  his  companions,  who  were 
occupied  in  sowing  their  own  oats,  perhaps  took  it  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course  that  he  should  be  a  rake,  and  were  only  struck 
with  the  exceptional  circumstance  that  he  was  a  pious  and 
moralizing  rake. 

There  is  some  irony  in  the  fact  that  the  two  first  poetical 
productions  of  Young,  published  in  the  same  year,  were  his 
"  Epistle  to  Lord  Lansdowne, "  celebrating  the  recent  creation 
of  peers — Lord  Lansdowne's  creation  in  particular ;  and  the 
"Last  Day."  Other  poets,  besides  Young,  found  the  device 
for  obtaining  a  Tory  majority  by  turning  twelve  insignificant 
commoners  into  insignificant  lords,  an  irresistible  stimulus  to 
verse;  but  no  other  poet  showed  so  versatile  an  enthusiasm — 
so  nearly  equal  an  ardor  for  the  honor  of  the  new  baron  and 
the  honor  of  the  Deity.  But  the  twofold  nature  of  the  syco- 
phant and  the  psalmist  is  not  more  strikingly  shown  in  the 
contrasted  themes  of  the  two  poems,  than  in  the  transitions 
from  bombast  about  monarchs,  to  bombast  about  the  resurrec- 
tion, in  the  "  Last  Day  "  itself.  The  dedication  of  this  poem 
to  Queen  Anne,  Young  afterward  suppressed,  for  he  was 
always  ashamed  of  having  flattered  a  dead  patron.  In  this 


THE  POET  YOUNG.  11 

dedication,  Croft  tells  us,  "  he  gives  her  Majesty  praise  indeed 
for  her  victories,  but  says  that  the  author  is  more  pleased  to 
see  her  rise  from  this  lower  world,  soaring  above  the  clouds, 
passing  the  first  and  second  heavens,  and  leaving  the  fixed 
stars  behind  her;  nor  will  he  lose  her  there,  he  says,  but  keep 
her  still  in  view  through  the  boundless  spaces  on  the  other 
side  of  creation,  in  her  journey  toward  eternal  bliss,  till  he 
behold  the  heaven  of  heavens  open,  and  angels  receiving  and 
conveying  her  still  onward  from  the  stretch  of  his  imagina- 
tion, which  tires  in  her  pursuit,  and  falls  back  again  to  earth." 
The  self-criticism  which  prompted  the  suppression  of  the 
dedication,  did  not,  however,  lead  him  to  improve  either  the 
rhyme  or  the  reason  of  the  unfortunate  couplet, — 

"  When  other  Bourbons  reign  in  other  lands, 
And,  if  men's  sins  forbid  not,  other  Annes." 

In  the  "  Epistle  to  Lord  Lansdowne, "  Young  indicates  his 
taste  for  the  drama ;  and  there  is  evidence  that  his  tragedy 
of  "  Busiris  "  was  "  in  the  theatre  "  as  early  as  this  very  year, 
1713,  though  it  was  not  brought  on  the  stage  till  nearly  six 
years  later ;  so  that  Young  was  now  very  decidedly  bent  on 
authorship,  for  which  his  degree  of  B.C.L.,  taken  in  this 
year,  was  doubtless  a  magical  equipment.  Another  poem, 
"  The  Force  of  Religion ;  or,  Vanquished  Love, "  founded  on 
the  execution  of  Lady  Jane  Grey  and  her  husband,  quickly 
followed,  showing  fertility  in  feeble  and  tasteless  verse ;  and 
on  the  Queen's  death,  in  1714,  Young  lost  no  time  in  making 
a  poetical  lament  for  a  departed  patron  a  vehicle  for  extrav- 
agant laudation  of  the  new  monarch.  No  further  literary 
production  of  his  appeared  until  1716,  when  a  Latin  oration 
which  he  delivered  on  the  foundation  of  the  Codrington  Library 
at  All  Souls,  gave  him  a  new  opportunity  for  displaying  his 
alacrity  in  inflated  panegyric. 

In  1717  it  is  probable  that  Young  accompanied  the  Duke  of 
Wharton  to  Ireland,  though  so  slender  are  the  materials  for 
his  biography,  that  the  chief  basis  for  this  supposition  is  a 
passage  in  his  "  Conjectures  on  Original  Composition,"  written 
when  he  was  nearly  eighty,  in  which  he  intimates  that  he  had 
once  been  in  that  country.  But  there  are  many  facts  surviv- 


12          WORLDLINESS  AND  OTHER- WORLDLINESS: 

ing  to  indicate  that  for  the  next  eight  or  nine  years  Young 
was  a  sort  of  attache  of  Wharton's.  In  1719,  according  to 
legal  records,  the  Duke  granted  him  an  annuity,  in  considera- 
tion of  his  having  relinquished  the  office  of  tutor  to  Lord  Bur- 
leigh,  with  a  life  annuity  of  £100  a  year,  on  his  Grace's  as- 
surances that  he  would  provide  for  him  in  a  much  more  ample 
manner.  And  again,  from  the  same  evidence,  it  appears  that 
in  1721  Young  received  from  Wharton  a  bond  for  £600,  in 
compensation  of  expenses  incurred  in  standing  for  Parliament 
at  the  Duke' s  desire,  and  as  an  earnest  of  greater  services 
which  his  Grace  had  promised  him  on  his  refraining  from  the 
spiritual  and  temporal  advantages  of  taking  orders  with  a  cer- 
tainty of  two  livings  in  the  gift  of  his  college.  It  is  clear, 
therefore,  that  lay  advancement,  as  long  as  there  was  any 
chance  of  it,  had  more  attractions  for  Young  than  clerical 
preferment ;  and  that  at  this  time  he  accepted  the  Duke  of 
Wharton  as  the  pilot  of  his  career. 

A  more  creditable  relation  of  Young's  was  his  friendship 
with  Tickell,  with  whom  he  was  in  the  habit  of  interchanging 
criticisms,  and  to  whom  in  1719 — the  same  year,  let  us  note, 
in  which  he  took  his  doctor's  degree — he  addressed  his  "  Lines 
on  the  Death  of  Addison."  Close  upon  these  followed  his 
"  Paraphrase  of  Part  of  the  Book  of  Job, "  with  a  dedication 
to  Parker,  recently  made  Lord  Chancellor,  showing  that  the 
possession  of  Wharton's  patronage  did  not  prevent  Young  from 
fishing  in  other  waters.  He  knew  nothing  of  Parker,  but  that 
did  not  prevent  him  from  magnifying  the  new  Chancellor's 
merits;  on  the  other  hand,  he  did  know  Wharton,  but  this 
again  did  not  prevent  him  from  prefixing  to  his  tragedy,  "  The 
Eevenge,"  which  appeared  in  1721,  a  dedication  attributing 
to  the  Duke  all  virtues,  as  well  as  all  accomplishments.  In 
the  concluding  sentence  of  this  dedication,  Young  naively 
indicates  that  a  considerable  ingredient  in  his  gratitude  was 
a  lively  sense  of  anticipated  favors.  "  My  present  fortune 
is  his  bounty,  and  my  future  his  care ;  which  I  will  venture 
to  say  will  always  be  remembered  to  his  honor;  since  he,  I 
know,  intended  his  generosity  as  an  encouragement  to  merit, 
though,  through  his  very  pardonable  partiality  to  one  who 
bears  him  so  sincere  a  duty  and  respect,  I  happen  to  receive 


THE  POET  YOUNG.  13 

the  benefit  of  it."  Young  was  economical  with  his  ideas  and 
images ;  he  was  rarely  satisfied  with  using  a  clever  thing  once, 
and  this  bit  of  ingenious  humility  was  afterward  made  to  do 
duty  in  the  "  Instalment, "  a  poem  addressed  to  Walpole : — 

"Be  this  thy  partial  smile,  from  censure  free, 
'Twas  meant  for  merit,  though  it  fell  on  me." 

It  was  probably  "  The  Keveuge  "  that  Young  was  writing 
when,  as  we  learn  from  Spence's  "Anecdotes,"  the  Duke  of 
Wharton  gave  him  a  skull  with  a  candle  fixed  in  it,  as  the 
most  appropriate  lamp  by  which  to  write  tragedy.  Accord- 
ing to  Young' s  dedication,  the  Duke  was  "  accessory  "  to  the 
scenes  of  this  tragedy  in  a  more  important  way,  "not  only  by 
suggesting  the  most  beautiful  incident  in  them,  but  by  making 
all  possible  provision  for  the  success  of  the  whole."  A  state- 
ment which  is  credible,  not  indeed  on  the  ground  of  Young's 
dedicatory  assertion,  but  from  the  known  ability  of  the  Duke, 
who,  as  Pope  tells  us,  possessed 

"Each  gift  of  Nature  and  of  Art, 
And  wanted  nothing  but  an  honest  heart." 

The  year  1722  seems  to  have  been  the  period  of  a  visit  to 
Mr.  Dodington,  at  Eastbury,  in  Dorsetshire — the  "  pure  Dor- 
setian  downs  "  celebrated  by  Thomson,  — in  which  Young  made 
the  acquaintance  of  Voltaire ;  for  in  the  subsequent  dedication 
of  his  "  Sea  Piece  "  to  "  Mr.  Voltaire,"  he  recalls  their  meeting 
on  Dorset  Downs ;  and  it  was  in  this  year  that  Christopher 
Pitt,  a  gentleman-poet  of  those  days,  addressed  an  "  Epistle  to 
Dr.  Edward  Young,  at  Eastbury,  in  Dorsetshire,"  which  has 
at  least  the  merit  of  this  biographical  couplet, — 

"While  with  your  Dodington  retired  you  sit, 
Charm'd  with  his  flowing  Burgundy  and  wit." 

Dodington,  apparently,  was  charmed  in  his  turn,  for  he  told 
Dr.  Warton  that  Young  was  "  far  superior  to  the  French  poet 
in  the  variety  and  novelty  of  his  bonmots  and  repartees. "  Un- 
fortunately, the  only  specimen  of  Young's  wit  on  this  occasion 
that  has  been  preserved  to  us  is  the  epigram  represented  as  an 


14          WORLDLINESS  AND  OTHER  WORLDLlNEBS  ; 

extempore  retort  (spoken  aside,  surely)  to  Voltaire's  criticism 
of  Milton' s  episode  of  Sin  and  Death : — 

"Thou  art  so  witty,  profligate,  and  thin, 
At  once  we  think  thee  Milton,  Death,  and  Sin" ; 

an  epigram  which,  in  the  absence  of  "  flowing  Burgundy, " 
does  not  strike  us  as  remarkably  brilliant.  Let  us  give  Young 
the  benefit  of  the  doubt  thrown  on  the  genuineness  of  this  epi- 
gram by  his  own  poetical  dedication,  in  which  he  represents 
himself  as  having  "  soothed  "  Voltaire's  "  rage  "  against  Milton 
"  with  gentle  rhymes  " ;  though  in  other  respects  that  dedica- 
tion is  anything  but  favorable  to  a  high  estimate  of  Young's 
wit.  Other  evidence  apart,  we  should  not  be  eager  for  the 
after-dinner  conversation  of  the  man  who  wrote,  — 

"Thine  is  the  Drama,  h6w  renown 'd! 
Thine  Epic's  loftier  trump  to  sound  ;— 
But  let  Arion's  sea-strung  harp  be  mine : 
But  where's  his  dolphin  ?    Know'st  thou  where  f 
May  that  be  found  in  thee,  Voltaire ! " 

The  "  Satires"  appeared  in  1725  and  1726,  each,  of  course, 
with  its  laudatory  dedication  and  its  compliments  insinuated 
amongst  the  rhymes.  The  seventh  and  last  is  dedicated  to 
Sir  Kobert  Walpole,  is  very  short,  and  contains  nothing  in 
particular  except  lunatic  flattery  of  George  I.  and  his  prime 
minister,  attributing  that  monarch's  late  escape  from  a  storm 
at  sea  to  the  miraculous  influence  of  his  grand  and  virtuous 
soul — for  George,  he  says,  rivals  the  angels : — 

"  George,  who  in  foes  can  soft  affections  raise, 
And  charm  envenomed  satire  into  praise. 
Nor  human  rage  alone  his  pow'r  perceives, 
But  the  mad  winds  and  the  tumultuous  waves. 
Ev'n  storms  (Death's  fiercest  ministers  !)  forbear, 
And  in  their  own  wild  empire  learn  to  spare. 
Thus,  Nature's  self,  supporting  Man's  decree, 
Styles  Britain's  sovereign,  sovereign  of  the  sea." 

As  for  Walpole,  what  he  felt  at  this  tremendous  crisis— 

"No  powers  of  language,  but  his  own,  can  tell, — 
His  own,  which  Nature  and  the  Graces  form, 
At  will,  to  raise,  or  hush,  the  civil  storm." 


THE  POET  YOUNG.  15 

It  is  a  coincidence  worth  noticing,  that  this  seventh  Satire 
was  published  in  1726,  and  that  the  warrant  of  George  I., 
granting  Young  a  pension  of  £200  a  year  from  Lady -day 
1725,  is  dated  May  3,  1726.  The  gratitude  exhibited  in  this 
Satire  may  have  been  chiefly  prospective,  but  the  "  Instalment " 
— a  poem  inspired  by  the  thrilling  event  of  Walpole's  installa- 
tion as  Knight  of  the  Garter — was  clearly  written  with  the 
double  ardor  of  a  man  who  has  got  a  pension,  and  hopes  for 
something  more.  His  emotion  about  Walpole  is  precisely  at 
the  same  pitch  as  his  subsequent  emotion  about  the  Second 
Advent.  In  the  "  Instalment "  he  says : — 

"With  invocations  some  their  hearts  inflame ; 
I  need  no  muse,  a  Walpole  is  my  theme." 

And  of  God  coming  to  judgment,    he  says,   in  the  "Night 
Thoughts  "  :— 

"I  find  my  inspiration  in  my  theme  ; 
The  grandeur  of  my  subject  is  my  muse. " 

Nothing  can  be  feebler  than  this  "Instalment,"  except  in 
the  strength  of  impudence  with  which  the  writer  professes  to 
scorn  the  prostitution  of  fair  fame,  the  "  profanation  of  celes- 
tial fire." 

Herbert  Croft  tells  us  that  Young  made  more  than  three 
thousand  pounds  by  his  "Satires," — a  surprising  statement, 
taken  in  connection  with  the  reasonable  doubt  he  throws  on 
the  story  related  in  Spence's  "Anecdotes,"  that  the  Duke  of 
Wharton  gave  Young  £2,000  for  this  work.  Young,  however, 
seems  to  have  been  tolerably  fortunate  in  the  pecuniary  results 
of  his  publications;  and  with  his  literary  profits,  his  annuity 
from  Wharton,  his  fellowship,  and  his  pension,  not  to  men- 
tion other  bounties  which  may  be  inferred  from  the  high 
merits  he  discovers  in  many  men  of  wealth  and  position,  we 
may  fairly  suppose  that  he  now  laid  the  foundation  of  the  con- 
siderable fortune  he  left  at  his  death. 

It  is  probable  that  the  Duke  of  Wharton's  final  departure 
for  the  Continent  and  disgrace  at  Court  in  1726,  and  the  con- 
sequent cessation  of  Young's  reliance  on  his  patronage,  tended 
not  only  to  heighten  the  temperature  of  his  poetical  enthu- 


16          WORLDLIXESS  AND  OTHER- WO RLDLINESS: 

siasm  for  Sir  Robert  Walpole,  but  also  to  turn  his  thoughts 
toward  the  Church  again,  as  the  second-best  means  of  rising 
in  the  world.  On  the  accession  of  George  II.,  Young  found 
the  same  transcendent  merits  in  him  as  in  his  predecessor, 
and  celebrated  them  in  a  style  of  poetry  previously  unat- 
tempted  by  him — the  Pindaric  ode,  a  poetic  form  which  helped 
him  to  surpass  himself  in  furious  bombast.  "  Ocean,  an  Ode : 
concluding  with  a  Wish,"  was  the  title  of  this  piece.  He 
afterward  pruned  it,  and  cut  off,  amongst  other  things,  the 
concluding  Wish,  expressing  the  yearning  for  humble  retire- 
ment, which,  of  course,  had  prompted  him  to  the  effusion ;  but 
we  may  judge  of  the  rejected  stanzas  by  the  quality  of  those 
he  has  allowed  to  remain.  For  example,  calling  on  Britain' s 
dead  mariners  to  rise  and  meet  their  "country's  full-blown 
glory  "  in  the  person  of  the  new  King,  he  says : —  • 

"  What  powerful  charm 

Can  Death  disarm? 
Your  long,  your  iron  slumbers  break? 

By  Jove,  by  Fame, 

By  George's  name 
Awake  !  awake  !  awake  !  awake ! " 

Soon  after  this  notable  production,  which  was  written  with 
the  ripe  folly  of  forty-seven,  Young  took  orders,  and  was  pres- 
ently appointed  chaplain  to  the  King.  "The  Brothers,"  his 
third  and  last  tragedy,  which  was  already  in  rehearsal,  he  now 
withdrew  from  the  stage,  and  sought  reputation  in  a  way 
more  accordant  with  the  decorum  of  his  new  profession,  by 
turning  prose-writer.  But  after  publishing  "A  True  Esti- 
mate of  Human  Life,"  with  a  dedication  to  the  Queen,  as  one 
of  the  "  most  shining  representatives  "  of  God  on  earth,  and 
a  sermon,  entitled  "  An  Apology  for  Princes ;  or,  the  Rever- 
ence due  to  Government, "  preached  before  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, his  Pindaric  ambition  again  seized  him,  and  he  matched 
his  former  ode  by  another,  called  "Imperium  Pelagi;  a  Naval 
Lyric,  written  in  Imitation  of  Pindar's  spirit,  occasioned  by 
his  Majesty's  Return  from  Hanover,  1729,  and  the  succeeding 
Peace."  Since  he  afterward  suppressed  this  second  ode,  we 
must  suppose  that  it  was  rather  worse  than  the  first.  Next 
came  his  two  "  Epistles  to  Pope,  concerning  the  Authors  of  the 


THE  POET  YOUNG.  17 

Age,"  remarkable  for  nothing  but  the  audacity  of  affectation 
with  which  the  most  servile  of  poets  professes  to  despise 
servility. 

In  1730,  Young  was  presented  by  his  college  with  the  rec- 
tory of  Welwyn,  in  Hertfordshire ;  and  in  the  following  year, 
when  he  was  just  fifty,  he  married  Lady  Elizabeth  Lee,  a 
widow  with  two  children,  who  seems  to  have  been  in  favor 
with  Queen  Caroline,  and  who  probably  had  an  income — two 
attractions  which  doubtless  enhanced  the  power  of  her  other 
charms.  Pastoral  duties  and  domesticity  probably  cured  Young 
of  some  bad  habits ;  but,  unhappily,  they  did  not  cure  him  either 
of  flattery  or  of  fustian.  Three  more  odes  followed,  quite  as 
bad  as  those  of  his  bachelorhood,  except  that  in  the  third  he 
announced  the  wise  resolution  of  never  writing  another.  It 
must  have  been  about  this  time,  since  Young  was  now  "  turned 
of  fifty,"  that  he  wrote  the  letter  to  Mrs.  Howard  (afterward 
Lady  Sufrolk),  George  II. 's  mistress,  which  proves  that  he  used 
other  engines,  besides  the  Pindaric,  in  "  besieging  Court  favor." 
The  letter  is  too  characteristic  to  be  omitted : — 

"Monday  Morning. 

"MADAM, — I  know  his  majesty's  goodness  to  his  servants,  and  his 
love  of  justice  in  general,  so  well,  that  I  am  confident,  if  his  majesty 
knew  my  case,  I  should  not  have  any  cause  to  despair  of  his  gracious 
favor  to  me. 

"Abilities.  Want. 

Good  Manners.  Sufferings  }  .     .  • 

Service.  and  V  ma1estv 

Age.  Zeal  jmajestj. 

These,  madam,  are  the  proper  points  of  consideration  in  the  person 
that  humbly  hopes  his  majesty's  favor 

"As  to  Abilities,  all  I  can  presume  to  say  is,  I  have  done  the  best  I 
could  to  improve  them. 

"As  to  Good  Manners,  I  desire  no  favor,  if  any  just  objection  lies 
against  them. 

"As  for  Service,  I  have  been  near  seven  years  in  his  majesty's,  and 
never  omitted  any  duty  in  it,  which  few  can  say 

"As  for  Age,  I  am  turned  of  fifty. 

"As  for  Want,  I  have  no  manner  of  preferment. 

"As  for  Sufferings,  I  have  lost  £300  per  ami.  by  being  in  his  majesty's 
service  ,  as  I  have  shown  in  a  Representation  which  his  majesty  has  been 
so  good  as  to  read  and  consider. 


18          WORLDLINESS  AND  OTHER  WORLDLINESS : 

"As  tor  Zeal,  I  have  written  nothing  without  showing  my  duty  to 
their  majesties,  and  some  pieces  are  dedicated  to  them. 

"  This,  madam,  is  the  short  and  true  state  of  my  case.  They  that 
make  their  court  to  the  ministers,  and  not  their  majesties,  succeed 
better.  If  my  case  deserves  some  consideration,  and  you  can  serve  me 
in  it,  I  humbly  hope  and  believe  'you  will  I  shall,  therefore,  trouble 
you  no  farther  ;  but  beg  leave  to  subscribe  myself,  with  truest  respect 
and  gratitude,  yours,  &c.  EDWARD  YODNG. 

11  P. S. — I  have  some  hope  that  my  Lord  Townshend  is  my  friend  ;  if 
therefore  soon  and  before  he  leaves  the  court,  you  had  an  opportunity  ot 
mentioning  me,  with  that  favor  you  have  been  so  good  to  show,  I  think 
it  would  not  fail  of  success;  and,  if  not,  I  shall  owe  you  more  than  any." 
—Suffolk  Letters,  vol.  i.  p.  285. 

Young's  wife  died  in  1741,  leaving  him  one  son,  born  in 
1733.  That  he  had  attached  himself  strongly  to  her  two 
daughters  by  her  former  marriage,  there  is  better  evidence  in 
the  report,  mentioned  by  Mrs.  Montagu,  of  his  practical  kind- 
ness and  liberality  to  the  younger,  than  in  his  lamentations 
over  the  elder  as  the  "Narcissa"  of  the  "Night  Thoughts." 
"  Narcissa  "  had  died  in  1735,  shortly  after  marriage  to  Mr. 
Temple,  the  son  of  Lord  Palmerston ;  and  Mr.  Temple  him- 
self, after  a  second  marriage,  died  in  1740,  a  year  before  Lady 
Elizabeth  Young.  These,  then,  are  the  three  deaths  supposed 
to  have  inspired  "  The  Complaint, "  which  forms  the  three  first 
books  of  the  "  Night  Thoughts  "  ;— 

"Insatiate  archer,  could  not  one  suffice? 
Thy  shaft  flew  thrice  ;  and  thrice  my  peace  was  slain  ; 
And  thrice,  ere  thrice  yon  moon  had  filled  her  horn." 

Since  we  find  Young  departing  from  the  truth  of  dates,  in 
order  to  heighten  the  effect  of  his  calamity,  or  at  least  of  his 
climax,  we  need  not  be  surprised  that  he  allowed  his  imagina- 
tion great  freedom  in  other  matters  besides  chronology,  and 
that  the  character  of  "  Philander  "  can,  by  no  process,  be  made 
to  fit  Mr.  Temple.  The  supposition  that  the  much-lectured 
"Lorenzo"  of  the  "Night  Thoughts"  was  Young's  own  son, 
is  hardly  rendered  more  absurd  by  the  fact  that  the  poem  was 
written  when  that  son  was  a  boy,  than  by  the  obvious  artifi- 
ciality of  the  characters  Young  introduces  as  targets  for  his 
arguments  and  rebukes.  Among  all  the  trivial  efforts  of  con- 
jectural criticism,  there  can  hardly  be  one  more  futile  than  the 


THE  POET  YOUNG.  19 

attempt  to  discover  the  original  bf  those  pitiable  lay -figures, 
the  "Lorenzos"  and  "  Altamonts"  of  Young's  didactic  prose 
and  poetry.  His  muse  never  stood  face  to  face  with  a  genu- 
ine, living  human  being ;  she  would  have  been  as  much  startled 
by  such  an  encounter  as  a  stage  necromancer  whose  incantations 
and  blue  fire  had  actually  conjured  up  a  demon. 

The  "  Night  Thoughts  "  appeared  between  1741  and  1745. 
Although  he  declares  in  them  that  he  has  chosen  God  for  his 
"  patron  "  henceforth,  this  is  not  at  all  to  the  prejudice  of  some 
half-dozen  lords,  duchesses,  and  right  honorables,  who  have 
the  privilege  of  sharing  finely  turned  compliments  with  their 
co-patron.  The  line  which  closed  the  Second  Night  in  the 
earlier  editions — 

"Wits  spare  not  Heaven,  O  Wilmington !- — nor  thee" — 

is  an  intense  specimen  of  that  perilous  juxtaposition  of  ideas 
by  which  Young,  in  his  incessant  search  after  point  and  nov- 
elty, unconsciously  converts  his  compliments  Jinto  "sarcasms ; 
and  his  apostrophe  to  the  moon  as  more  likely  to  be  favorable 
tc  his  song  if  he  calls  her  "fair  Portland  of  the  skies,"  is 
worthy  even  of  his  Pindaric  ravings.  His  ostentatious  re- 
nunciation of  worldly  schemes,  and  especially  of  his  ^twenty- 
years'  siege  of  Court  favor,  are  in  the  tone  of  one  who  retains 
some  hope,  in  the  midst  of  his  querulousness. 

He  descended  from  the  astronomical  rhapsodies  of  his  Ninth 
Night,  published  [in  1745,  to  more  terrestrial  strains  in  his 
"  Keflections  on  the  Public  Situation  of  the  Kingdom, "  dedi- 
cated to  the  Duke  of  Newcastle ;  but  in  this  critical  year  we 
get  a  glimpse  of  him  through  a  more  prosaic  and  less  refract- 
ing medium.  He  spent  a  part  of  the  year  at  Tunbridge  Wells ; 
and  Mrs.  Montagu,  who  was  there  too,  gives  a  very  lively  pic- 
ture of  the  "  divine  Doctor  "  in  her  letters  to  the  Duchess  of 
Portland,  on  whom  Young  had  bestowed  the  superlative  bom- 
bast to  which  we  have  just  referred.  We  shall  borrow  the 
quotations  from  Dr.  Doran,  in  spite  of  their  length,  because, 
to  our  mind,  they  present  the  most  agreeable  portrait  we  pos- 
sess of  Young : — 

'"I  have  great  joy  in  Dr.  Young,  whom  I  disturbed  in  a  reverie.  At 
first  he  started,  then  bowed,  then  fell  back  into  a  surprise ;  then  began 


20          WORLDLINESS  AND  OTHER- WORLDL1NESS : 

• 

a  speech,  relapsed  into  his  astonishment  two  or  three  times,  forgot  what 
he  had  been  saying ;  began  a  new  subject,  and  so  went  on.  I  told  him 
your  grace  desired  he  would  write  longer  letters ;  to  which  he  cried 
"  Ha ! "  most  emphatically,  and  I  leave  you  to  interpret  what  it  meant. 
He  has  made  a  friendship  with  one  person  here,  whom  I  believe  you 
would  not  imagine  to  have  been  made  for  his  bosom  friend.  You  would, 
perhaps,  suppose  it  was  a  bishop  or  dean,  a  prebend,  a  pious  preacher,  a 
clergyman  of  exemplary  life,  or,  if  a  layman,  of  most  virtuous  conversa- 
tion, one  that  had  paraphrased  St.  Matthew,  or  wrote  comments  on  St. 
Paul.  .  .  .  You  would  not  guess  that  this  associate  of  the  doctor's  was 
— old  Gibber  !  Certainly,  in  their  religious,  moral,  and  civil  character, 
there  is  no  relation  ;  but  in  their  dramatic  capacity  there  is  some. '— 
Mrs.  Montagu  was  not  aware  that  Gibber,  whom  Young  had  named  not 
disparagingly  in  his  Satires,  was  the  brother  of  his  old  schoolfellow ; 
but  to  return  to  our  hero.  '  The  waters, '  says  Mrs.  Montagu, '  have  raised 
his  spirits  to  a  fine  pitch,  as  your  grace  will  imagine,  when  I  tell  you 
how  sublime  an  answer  he  made  to  a  very  vulgar  question.  I  asked  him 
how  long  he  stayed  at  the  Wells  :  he  said,  As  long  as  my  rival  stayed  ; — 
as  long  as  the  sun  did.'  Among  the  visitors  at  the  Wells  were  Lady 
Sunderland  (wife  of  Sir  Robert  Sutton)  and  her  sister,  Mrs.  Tichborne. 
:  He  did  an  admirable  thing  to  Lady  Sunderland :  on  .her  mentioning" 
Sir  Robert  Sutton,  he  asked  her  where  Sir  Robert's  lady  was  ;  on  which 
we  all  laughed  very  heartily,  and  I  brought  him  off,  half  ashamed,  to 
my  lodgings,  where,  during  breakfast,  he  assured  me  he  had  asked  after 
Lady  Sunderland,  because  he  had  a  great  honor  for  her  ;  and  that,  hav- 
ing a  respect  for  her  sister,  he  designed  to  have  inquired  after  her,  if 
we  had  notput  it  out  of  his  head  by  laughing  at  him.  You  must  know, 
Mrs.  Tichborne  sat  next  to  Lady  Sunderland.  It  would  have  been  ad- 
mirable to  have  had  him  finish  his  compliment  in  that  manner.'  .  .  . 
:His  expressions  all  bear  the  stamp  of  novelty,  and  his  thoughts  of  ster- 
ling sense.  He  practises  a  kind  of  philosophical  abstinence.  ...  He 
carried  Mrs.  Rolt  and  myself  to  Tunbridge,  five  miles  from  hence,  where 
we  were  to  see  some  fine  old  ruins.  .  .  .  First  rode  the  doctor  on  a  tall 
steed,  decently  caparisoned  in  dark  gray  ;  next,  ambled  Mrs.  Rolt  on  a 
hackney  horse  ;  .  .  .  then  followed  your  humble  servant  on  a  milk-white 
palfrey.  I  rode  on  in  safety,  and  at  leisure  to  observe  the  company, 
especially  the  two  figures  that  brought  up  the  rear.  The  first  was  my 
servant,  valiantly  armed  with  two  uncharged  pistols  ;  the  last  was  the 
doctor's  man,  whose  uncombed  hair  so  resembled  the  mane  of  the  horse 
he  rode,  one  could  not  help  imagining  they  were  of  kin,  and  wishing, 
for  the  honor  of  the  family,  that  they  had  had  one  comb  betwixt  them. 
On  his  head  was  a  velvet  cap,  much  resembling  a  black  saucepan,  and 
on  his  side  hung  a  little  basket. — At  last  we  arrived  at  the  King's  Head, 
where  the  loyalty  of  the  doctor  induced  him  to  alight;  and  then, 
knight-errant-like,  he  took  his  damsels  from  off  their  palfreys,  and 
courteously  handed  us  into  the  inn.'  .  .  .  The  party  returned  to  the 
Wells;  and 'the  silver  Cynthia  held  up  her  lamp  in  the  heavens'  the 


THE  POET  YOUNG.  21 

while.  'The  night  silenced  all  but  our  divine  doctor,  who  sometimes 
uttered  things  fit  to  be  spoken  in  a  season  when  all  nature  seems  to  be 
hushed  and  hearkening.  I  followed,  gathering  wisdom  as  I  went,  till  I 
found,  by  iny  horse's  stumbling,  that  I  was  in  a  bad  road,  and  that  the 
blind  was  leading  the  blind.  So  I  placed  my  servant  between  the  doctor 
and  myself ;  which  he  not  perceiving,  went  on  in  a  most  philosophical 
strain,  to  the  great  admiration  of  my  poor  clown  of  a  servant,  who,  not 
being  wrought  up  to  any  pitch  of  enthusiasm,  nor  making  any  answer 
to  all  the  fine  things  he  heard,  the  doctor,  wondering  I  was  dumb,  and 
grieving  I  was  so  stupid,  looked  round  and  declared  his  surprise.'" 

Young's  oddity  and  absence  of  mind  are  gathered  from 
other  sources  besides  these  stories  of  Mrs.  Montagu's,  and 
gave  rise  to  the  report  that  he  was  the  original  of  Fielding's 
"Parson  Adams'';  but  this  Croft  denies,  and  mentions  an- 
other Young,  who  really  sat  for  the  portrait,  and  who,  we  imag- 
ine, had  both  more  Greek  and  more  genuine  simplicity  than 
the  poet.  His  love  of  chatting  with  Colley  Gibber  was  an 
indication  that  the  old  predilection  for  the  stage  survived, 
in  spite  of  his  emphatic  contempt  for  "  all  joys  but  joys  that 
never  can  expire";  and  the  production  of  "The  Brothers" 
at  Drury  Lane  in  1753,  after  a  suppression  of  fifteen  years, 
was  perhaps  not  entirely  due  to  the  expressed  desire  to  give 
the  proceeds  to  the  Society  for  the  Propagation  of  the  Gospel. 
The  author's  profits  were  not  more  than  £400 — in  those  days 
a  disappointing  sum,  and  Young,  as  we  learn  from  his  friend 
Richardson,  did  not  make  this  the  limit  of  his  donation,  but 
gave  a  thousand  guineas  to  the  Society.  "  I  had  some  talk 
with  him,"  says  Richardson,  in  one  of  his  letters,  "about  this 
great  action.  '  I  always,'  said  he,  '  intended  to  do  something 
handsome  for  the  Society.  Had  I  deferred  it  to  my  demise,  I 
should  have  given  away  my  son's  money.  All  the  world  are 
inclined  to  pleasure ;  could  I  have  given  myself  a  greater  by 
disposing  of  the  sum  to  a  different  use,  I  should  have  done  it.' ' 

His  next  work  was  "  The  Centaur  not  Fabulous ;  in  Six  Let- 
ters to  a  Friend,  on  the  Life  in  Vogue,"  which  reads  very 
much  like  the  most  objurgatory  parts  of  the  "  Night  Thoughts  '' 
reduced  to  prose.  It  is  preceded  by  a  preface  which,  though 
addressed  to  a  lady,  is  in  itc  denunciations  of  vice  as  grossly 
indecent  and  almost  as  flippant  as  the  epilogues  written  by 
"  friends, "  which  he  allowed  to  be  reprinted  after  his  tragedies 


22  WORLDLINESS  AND  OTHER-WORLDLINESS  : 

in  the  latest  edition  of  his  works.  We  like  much  better  than 
"The  Centaur,"  "Conjectures  on  Original  Com  position,  "writ- 
ten in  1759,  for  the  sake,  he  says,  of  communicating  to  the 
world  the  well-known  anecdote  about  Addison's  death-bed, 
and,  with  the  exception  of  his  poem  on  Eesignation,  the  last 
thing  he  ever  published. 

The  estrangement  from  his  son,  which  must  have  imbittered 
the  later  years  of  his  life,  appears  to  have  begun  not  many  years 
after  the  mother's  death.  On  the  marriage  of  her  second 
daughter,  who  had  previously  presided  over  Young's  house- 
hold, a  Mrs.  Hallows,  understood  to  be  a  woman  of  discreet 
age,  and  the  daughter  (or  widow)  of  a  clergyman  who  was 
an  old  friend  of  Young's,  became  housekeeper  at  Welwyn. 
Opinions  about  ladies  are  apt  to  differ.  "  Mrs.  Hallows  was 
a  woman  of  piety,  improved  by  reading,"  says  one  witness. 
"She  was  a  very  coarse  woman,"  says  Dr.  Johnson ;  and  we 
shall  presently  find  some  indirect  evidence  that  her  temper 
was  perhaps  not  quite  so  much  improved  as  her  piety.  Ser- 
vants, it  seems,  were  not  fond  of  remaining  long  in  the  house 
with  her ,  a  satirical  curate,  named  Kidgell,  hints  at  "  drops 
of  juniper"  taken  as  a  cordial  (but  perhaps  he  was  spiteful, 
and  a  teetotaler) ;  and  Young's  son  is  said  to  have  told  his 
father  that  "  an  old  man  should  not  resign  himself  to  the  man- 
agement of  anybody."  The  result  was,  that  the  son  was  ban- 
ished from  home  for  the  rest  of  his  father's  lifetime,  though 
Young  seems  never  to  have  thought  of  disinheriting  him. 

Our  latest  glimpses  of  the  aged  poet  are  derived  from  cer- 
tain letters  of  Mr.  Jones,  his  curate — letters  preserved  in  the 
British  Museum,  and,  happily,  made  accessible  to  common  mor- 
tals in  Nichols's  'Anecdotes.'  Mr.  Jones  was  a  man  of  some 
literary  activity  and  ambition, — a  collector  of  interesting  docu- 
ments, and  one  of  those  concerned  in  the  "  Free  and  Candid 
Disquisitions, "  the  design  of  which  was  "  to  point  out  such 
things  in  our  ecclesiastical  establishment  as  want  to  be  re- 
viewed and  amended."  On  these  and  kindred  subjects  he  cor- 
responded with  Dr.  Birch,  occasionally  troubling  him  with 
queries  and  manuscripts.  We  havo  a  respect  for  Mr.  Jones. 
Unlike  most  persons  who  trouble  others  with  queries  or  manu- 
scripts, he  mitigates  the  infliction  by  such  gifts  as  "a  fat 


THE  POET  YOUNG.  23 

pullet,"  wishing  he  "had  anything  better  to  send;  but  this 
depauperizing,  vicarage  (of  Alconbury)  too  often  checks  the 
freedom  and  forwardness  of  my  mind. "  Another  day  comes 
a  "pound  canister  of  tea";  another,  a  "young  fatted  goose. " 
Mr.  Jones'  s  first  letter  from  Welwyn  is  dated  June,  1759,  not 
quite  six  years  before  Young's  death.  In  June,  1762,  he  ex- 
presses a  wish  to  go  to  London  "  this  summer.  But, "  he  con- 
tinues,— 

"  My  time  and  pains  are  almost  continually  taken  up  here,  and  .  .  . 
I  have  been  (I  now  find)  a  considerable  loser,  upon  the  whole,  by  con- 
tinuing here  so  long.  The  consideration  of  this,  and  the  inconveniences 
I  sustained,  and  do  still  experience  from  my  late  illness,  obliged  me  at 
last  to  acquaint  the  Doctor  (Young)  with  my  case,  and  to  assure  him 
that  I  plainly  perceived  the  duty  and  confinement  here  to  be  too  much 
for  me  ;  for  which  reason  I  must  (I  said)  beg  to  be  at  liberty  to  resign 
my  charge  at  Michaelmas.  I  began  to  give  him  these  notices  in  Febru- 
ary, when  I  was  very  ill :  and  now  I  perceive,  by  what  he  told  me  the 
other  day,  that  he  is  in  some  difficulty  for  which  reason  he  is  at  last 
(he  says)  resolved  to  advertise,  and  even  (which  is  much  wondered  at)  to 
raise  Ike  salary  considerably  higher.  (What  he  allowed  my  predecessors 
was  £20  per  annum  ;  and  now  he  proposes  £50,  as  he  tells  me.)  I  never 
asked  him  to  raise  it  for  me,  though  r  well  knew  it  was  not  equal  to  the 
duty  ;  nor  did  I  say  a  word  about  myself  when  he  lately  suggested  to  me 
his  intentions  upon  this  subject." 

In  a  postscript  to  this  letter  he  says : — 

"I  may  mention  to  you  farther,  as  a  friend  that  may  be  trusted,  that, 
in  all  likelihood,  the  poor  old  gentleman  will  not  find  it  a  very  easy 
matter,  unless  by  dint  of  money,  and  force  upon  himself,  to  procure  a 
man  that  he  can  like  for  his  next  curate,  nor  one  that  will  stay  with 
hi?n  so  long  as  1  have  done.  Then,  his  great  age  will  recur  to  people's 
thoughts,  and  if  he  has  any  foibles,  either  in  temper  or  conduct,  they 
will  be  sure  not  to  be  forgotten  on  this  occasion  by  those  who  know  him  ; 
and  those  who  do  not  will  probably  be  on  their  guard.  On  these  and 
the  like  considerations,  it  is  by  no  means  an  eligible  office  to  be  seeking 
out  for  a  curate  for  him,  as  he  has  several  times  wished  me  to  do  ;  and 
would,  if  he  knew  that  I  am  now  writing  to  you,  wish  your  assistance 
also.  But  my  best  friends  here,  who  well  foresee  the  probable  consequences, 
and  wish  me  well,  earnestly  dissuade  me  from  complying ;  and  I  will 
decline  the  office  with  as  much  decency  as  I  can :  but  high  salary  will, 
I  suppose,  fetch  in  somebody  or  other,  soon." 

In  the  following  July,  he  writes : — 

"  The  old  gentleman  here  (I  may  venture  to  tell  you  freely)  seems  to 
me  to  be  in  a  pretty  odd  way  of  late, — moping,  dejected,  self-willed,  and 


24  WORLDLINESS  A!ND   OTHER- WORLDLINESS . 

as  if  surrounded  with  some  perplexing  circumstances.  Though  I  visit 
him  pretty  frequently  for  short  intervals,  I  say  very  little  to  his  affairs, 
not  choosing  to  be  a  party  concerned,  especially  in  cases  of  so  critical 
and  tender  a  nature.  There  is  much  mystery  in  almost  all  his  temporal 
affairs,  as  -well  as  in  many  of  his  speculative  theories.  Whoever  lives 
in  this  neighborhood  to  see  his  exit,  will  probably  see  and  hear  some 
very  strange  things.  Time  will  show  ; — I  am  afraid,  not  greatly  to  hia 
credit.  There  is  thought  to  bean,  irremovable  obstructionto  his  happiness 
within  his  walls,  as  well  as  another  without  them;  but  the  former  is  the 
more  powerful,  and  like  to  continue  so.  He  has  this  day  been  trying 
anew  to  engage  me  to  stay  with  him.  Ko  lucrative  views  can  tempt 
me  to  sacrifice  my  liberty  or  my  health,  to  such  measures  as  are  pro- 
posed here.  Nor  do  I  like  to  have  to  do  with  persons  whose  word  and  honor 
cannot  be  depended  on.  So  much  for  this  very  odd  and  unhappy  topic." 

In  August,  Mr.  Jones's  tone  is  slightly  modified.  Earnest 
entreaties,  not  lucrative  considerations,  have  induced  him  to 
cheer  the  Doctor's  dejected  heart  by  remaining  at  Welwyn 
some  time  longer.  The  Doctor  is,  "  in  various  respects,  a  very 
unhappy  man, "  and  few  know  so  much  of  these  "  respects  "  as 
Mr.  Jones.  In  September,  he  recurs  to  tho  subject : — 

"My  ancient  gentleman  here  is  still  full  of  trouble  :  which  moves  my 
concern,  though  it  moves  only  the  secret  laughter  of  many,  and  some 
untoward  surmises  in  disfavor  of  him  and  his  household.  The  loss  of  a 
very  large  sum  of  money  (about  £200)  is  talked  of ;  whereof  this  vill 
and  neighborhood  is  full.  Some  disbelieve  ;  others  say.  'It  is  no  wonder, 
ichere  about  eighteen  or  more  servants  are  sometimes  taken  and  dismissed 
in  the  course  of  a  year.''  The  gentleman  himself  is  allowed  by  all  to  be 
far  more  harmless  and  easy  in  his  family  than  some  one  else  who  hath 
too  much  the  lead  in  it.  This,  among  others,  was  one  reason  for  my 
late  motion  to  quit." 

No  other  mention  of  Young's  affairs  occurs  until  April  2, 
1765,  when  he  says  that  Dr.  Young  is  very  ill,  attended  by  two 
physicians. 

"  Having  mentioned  this  young  gentleman  (Dr.  Young's  son),  I  would 
acquaint  you  next,  that  he  came  hither  this  morning,  having  been  sent 
for,  as  I  am  told,  by  the  direction  of  Mrs.  Hallows.  Indeed,  she  in- 
timated to  me  as  much  herself.  And  if  this  be  so.  I  must  say  that  it  is 
one  of  the  most  prudent  acts  she  ever  did,  or  could  have  done  in  such  a 
case  as  this ;  as  it  may  prove  a  means  of  preventing  much  confusion 
after  the  death  of  the  Doctor.  I  have  had  some  little  discourse  with  the 
son :  he  seems  much  affected,  and  I  believe  really  is  so.  He  earnestly 
wishes  his  father  might  be  pleased  to  ask  after  him  ;  for  you  must  know 


THE  POET  YOUNG.  25 

he  has  not  yet  done  this,  nor  is,  in  iny  opinion,  like  to  do  it.  And  it 
has  been  said  farther,  that  upon  a  late  application  made  to  him  on  the 
behalf  of  his  son,  he  desired  that  no  more  might  be  said  to  him  about  it. 
How  true  this  may  be,  I  cannot  as  yet  be  certain  ;  all  I  shall  say  is,  it 
seems  not  improbable.  ...  I  heartily  wish  the  ancient  man's  heart 
may  prove  tender  toward  his  son  ;  though,  knowing  him  so  well,  I  can 
scarce  hope  to  hear  such  desirable  news." 

Eleven  days  later,  he  writes : — 

"I  have  now  the  pleasure  to  acquaint  you,  that  the  late  Dr.  Young, 
though  he  had  for  many  years  kept  his  son  at  a  distance  from  him,  yet 
has  now  at  last  left  him  all  his  possessions,  after  the  payment  of  certain 
legacies  ;  so  that  the  young  gentleman  (who  bears  a  fair  character,  and 
behaves  well,  as  far  as  I  can  hear  or  see)  will,  I  hope,  soon  enjoy  and 
make  a  prudent  use  of  a  handsome  fortune.  The  father,  on  his  death- 
bed, and  since  my  return  from  London,  was  applied  to  in  the  tenderest 
manner,  by  one  of  his  physicians,  and  by  another  person,  to  admit  the 
son  into  his  presence,  to  make  submission,  entreat  forgiveness,  and  ob- 
tain his  blessing.  As  to  an  interview  with  his  son,  he  intimated  that 
he  chose  to  decline  it,  as  his  spirits'were  then  low,  and  his  nerves  weak. 
With  regard  to  the  next  particular,  he  said,  'I  heartily  forgive  him' ; 
and  upon  mention  of  this  last,  he  gently  lifted  up  his  hand,  and  letting 
it  gently  fall,  pronounced  these  words,  '  God  bless  him  /'.".-.  I  know  it 
will  give  you  pleasure  to  be  farther  informed,  that  he  was  pleased  to 
make  respectful  mention  of  me  in  his  will ;  expressing  his  satisfaction 
in  my  care  of  his  parish,  bequeathing  to  me  a  handsome  legacy,  and  ap- 
pointing me  to  be  one  of  his  executors." 

So  far  Mr.  Jones,  in  his  confidential  correspondence  with  a 
"  friend  who  may  be  trusted. "  In  a  letter  communicated  ap- 
parently by  him  to  the  "  Gentleman's  Magazine "  seventeen 
years  later — namely,  in  1782 — on  the  appearance  of  Croft's 
biography  of  Young,  we  find  him  speaking  of  "  the  ancient 
gentleman  "  in  a  tone  of  reverential  eulogy,  quite  at  variance 
with  the  free  comments  we  have  just  quoted.  But  the  Kev. 
John  Jones  was  probably  of  opinion,  with  Mrs.  Montagu, 
whose  contemporary  and  retrospective  letters  are  also  set  in  a 
different  key,  that  "  the  interests  of  religion  were  connected 
with  the  character  of  a  man  so  distinguished  for  piety  as  Dr. 
Young."  At  all  events,  a  subsequent  quasi  official  statement 
weighs  nothing  as  evidence  against  contemporary,  spontaneous, 
and  confidential  hints. 

To  Mrs.  Hallows,  Young  left  a  legacy  of  £1,000,  with  the 


26          WORLDLINESS  AND  OTHER  WORLDLINESS  ; 

request  that  she  would  destroy  all  his  manuscripts.  This  final 
request,  from  some  unknown  cause,  was  not  complied  with, 
and  among  the  papers  he  left  behind  him  was  the  following 
letter  from  Archbishop  Seeker,  which  probably  marks  the 
date  of  his  latest  effort  after  preferment : — 

"DEANERY  or  ST    PAUL'S,  July  8,  1758. 

"GOOD  DR.  YOUNG, — I  have  long  wondered  that  more  suitable  notice 
of  your  great  merit  hath  not  been  taken  by  persons  in  power.  But  how 
to  remedy  the  omission  I  see  not.  No  encouragement  hath  ever  been 
given  me  to  mention  things  of  this  nature  to  his  Majesty.  And  there- 
fore, in  all  likelihood,  the  only  consequence  of  doing  it  would  be  weak- 
ening the  little  influence  which  else  I  may  possibly  have  on  some  other 
occasions.  Your  fortune  and  your  reputation  set  you  above  the  need  of 
advancement;  and  your  sentiments  above  that  concern  for  it  on  your  own 
account,  which,  on  that  of  the  public,  is  sincerely  feit  by 

"Your  loving  Brother, 

"THO.  CANT." 

The  loving  brother's  irony  is  severe! 

Perhaps  the  least  questionable  testimony  to  the  better  side 
of  Young's  character  is  that  of  Bishop  Hildesley,  who,  as  the 
vicar  of  a  parish  near  Welwyn,  had  been  Young's  neighbor 
for  upward  of  twenty  years.  The  affection  of  the  clergy  for 
each  other,  we  have  observed,  is,  like  that  of  the  fair  sex,  not 
at  all  of  a  blind  and  infatuated  kind ;  and  we  may  therefore 
the  rather  believe  them  when  they  give  each  other  any  extra- 
official  praise.  Bishop  Hildesley,  then,  writing  of  Young  to 
Richardson,  says: — 

"The  impertinence  of  my  frequent  visits  to  him  was  amply  rewarded  ; 
forasmuch  as,  I  can  truly  say,  he  never  received  me  but  with  agreeable 
open  complacency  ,  and  I  never  left  him  but  with  profitable  pleasure  and 
improvement.  He  was  one  or  other,  the  most  modest,  the  most  patient 
of  contradiction,  and  the  most  informing  and  entertaining  I  ever  con- 
versed with — at  least,  of  any  man  who  had  so  just  pretensions  to  per- 
tinacity and  reserve." 

Mr.  Langton,  however,  who  was  also  a  frequent  visitor  of 
Young's,  informed  Boswell — 

"That  there  was  an  air  of  benevolence  in  his  manner ;  but  that  he 
could  obtain  from  him  less  information  than  he  had  hoped  to  receive 
from  one  who  had  lived  so  much  in  intercourse  with  the  brightest  men 
of  what  had  been  called  the  Augustan  age  of  England ;  and  that  he 


THE  POET  YOUNG.  27 

showed  a  degree  of  eager  curiosity  concerning  the  common  occurrences 
that  were  then  passing,  which  appeared  somewhat  remarkable  in  a  man 
of  such  intellectual  stores,  of  such  an  advanced  age,  and  who  had  retired 
from  life  with  declared  disappointment  in  his  expectations." 

The  same  substance,  we  know,  will  exhibit  different  quali- 
ties under  different  tests ;  and,  after  all,  imperfect  reports  of 
individual  impressions,  whether  immediate  or  traditional,  are  a 
very  frail  basis  on  which  to  build  our  opinion  of  a  man.  One's 
character  may  be  very  indifferently  mirrored  in  the  mind  of 
the  most  intimate  neighbor;  it  all  depends  on  the  quality  of 
that  gentleman's  reflecting  surface. 

But,  discarding  any  inferences  from  such  uncertain  evi- 
dence, the  outline  of  Young's  character  is  too  distinctly  trace- 
able in  the  well-attested  facts  of  his  life,  and  yet  more  in  the 
self-betrayal  that  runs  through  all  his  works,  for  us  to  fear 
that  our  general  estimate  of  him  may  be  false.  For,  while 
no  poet  seems  less  easy  and  spontaneous  than  Young,  no  poet 
discloses  himself  more  completely.  Men's  minds  have  no  hid- 
ing-place out  of  themselves — their  affectations  do  but  betray 
another  phase  of  their  nature.  And  if,  in  the  present  view  of 
Young,  we  seem  to  be  more  intent  on  laying  bare  unfavorable 
facts  than  on  shrouding  them  in  charitable  speeches,  it  is  not 
because  we  have  any  irreverential  pleasure  in  turning  men's 
characters  the  seamy  side  without,  but  because  we  see  no  great 
advantage  in  considering  a  man  as  he  was  not.  Young's  bi- 
ographers and  critics  have  usually  set  out  from  the  position 
that  he  was  a  great  religious  teacher,  and  that  his  poetry  is 
morally  sublime ;  and  they  have  toned  down  his  failings  into 
harmony  with  their  conception  of  the  divine  and  the  poet. 
For  our  own  part,  we  set  out  from  precisely  the  opposite  con- 
viction— namely,  that  the  religious  and  moral  spirit  of  Young's 
poetry  is  low  and  false ;  and  we  think  it  of  some  importance 
to  show  that  the  "  Night  Thoughts  "  are  the  reflex  of  a  mind 
in  which  the  higher  human  sympathies  were  inactive.  This 
judgment  is  entirely  opposed  to  our  youthful  predilections  and 
enthusiasm.  The  sweet  garden-breath  of  early  enjoyment  lin- 
gers about  many  a  page  of  the  "  Night  Thoughts, "  and  even 
of  the  "  Last  Day, "  giving  an  extrinsic  charm  to  passages  of 
stilted  rhetoric  and  false  sentiment  j  but  the  sober  and  re- 


28  WORLDLINESS  AND  OTHER-  WORLDLINESS : 

peated  reading  of  maturer  years  has  convinced  us  that  it  would 
hardly  be  possible  to  find  a  more  typical  instance  than  Young's 
poetry,  of  the  mistake  which  substitutes  interested  obedience 
for  sympathetic  emotion,  and  baptizes  egoism  as  religion. 

Pope  said  of  Young,  that  he  had  "  much  of  a  sublime  genius 
without  common  sense."  The  deficiency  Pope  meant  to  indi- 
cate was,  we  imagine,  moral  rather  than  intellectual :  it  was 
the  want  of  that  fine  sense  of  what  is  fitting  in  speech  and 
action,  which  is  often  eminently  possessed  by  men  and  women 
whose  intellect  is  of  a  very  common  order,  but  who  have  the 
sincerity  and  dignity  which  can  never  coexist  with  the  selfish 
preoccupations  of  vanity  or  interest.  This  was  the  "  common 
sense "  in  which  Young  was  conspicuously  deficient ;  and  it 
was  partly  owing  to  this  deficiency  that  his  genius,  waiting  to 
be  determined  by  the  highest  prizes,  fluttered  uncertainly  from 
effort  to  effort,  until,  when  he  was  more  than  sixty,  it  sud- 
denly spread  its  broad  wing,  and  soared  so  as  to  arrest  the 
gaze  of  other  generations  besides  his  own.  For  he  had  no 
versatility  of  faculty  to  mislead  him.  The  "  Night  Thoughts  " 
only  differ  from  his  previous  works  in  the  degree  and  not  in 
the  kind  of  power  they  manifest.  Whether  he  writes  prose 
or  poetry,  rhyme  or  blank  verse,  dramas,  satires,  odes,  or 
meditations,  we  see  everywhere  the  same  Young — the  same 
narrow  circle  of  thoughts,  the  same  love  of  abstractions,  the 
same  telescopic  view  of  human  things,  the  same  appetency 
toward  antithetic  apothegm  and  rhapsodic  climax.  The  pas- 
sages that  arrest  us  in  his  tragedies  are  those  in  which  he  an- 
ticipates some  fine  passage  in  the  "  Night  Thoughts, "  and  where 
his  characters  are  only  transparent  shadows  through  which  we 
see  the  bewigged  embonpoint  of  the  didactic  poet,  excogitating 
epigrams  or  ecstatic  soliloquies  by  the  light  of  a  candle  fixed  in 
a  skull.  Thus,  in  "  The  Revenge, "  Alonzo,  in  the  conflict  of 
jealousy  and  love  that  at  once  urges  and  fo-bids  him  to  murder 
his  wife,  says: — 

"This  vast  and  solid  earth,  that  blazing  sun, 
Those  skies,  through  which  it  rolls,  must  all  have  end. 
What  then  is  man?    The  smallest  part  of  nothing. 
Day  buries  day  ;  month,  month  ;  and  year  the  year  I 
Our  life  is  but  a  chain  of  many  deaths. 


THE  POET  YOUNG.  29 

Can  then  Death's  self  be  feared?    Our  life  much  rather : 

Life  is  the  desert,  life  the  solitude ; 

Death  joins  us  to  the  great  majority  : 

'Tis  to  be  born  to  Plato  and  to  Caesar ; 

'Tis  to  be  great  forever ; 

'Tis  pleasure,  'tis  ambition,  then,  to  die." 

His  prose  writings  all  read  like  the  "  Night  Thoughts, "  either 
diluted  into  prose,  or  not  yet  crystallized  into  poetry.  For 
example,  in  his  "  Thoughts  for  Age, "  he  says : — 

"Though  we  stand  on  its  awful  brink,  such  our  leaden  bias  to  the 
world,  we  turn  our  faces  the  wrong  way  ;  we  are  still  looking  on  our 
old  acquaintance,  Time;  though  now  so  wasted  and  reduced,  that  we 
can  see  little  more  of  him  than  his  wings  and  his  scythe :  our  age  en- 
larges his  wings  to  our  imagination ;  and  our  fear  of  death,  his  scythe  ; 
as  Time  himself  grows  less.  His  consumption  is  deep;  his  annihilation 
is  at  hand." 

This  is  a  dilution  of  the  magnificent  image : — 

"Time  in  advance  behind  him  hides  his  wings, 
And  seems  to  creep  decrepit  with  his  age. 
Behold  him  when  past  by  !     What  then  is  seen 
But  his  broad  pinions,  swifter  than  the  winds?  " 

Again : — 

"A  requesting  Omnipotence?  What  can  stun  and  confound  thy 
reason  more?  What  more  can  ravish  and  exalt  thy  heart?  It  cannot 
but  ravish  and  exalt ;  it  cannot  but  gloriously  disturb  and  perplex  thee, 
to  take  in  all  that  thought  suggests.  Thou  child  of  the  dust !  thou  speck 
of  misery  and  sin  !  how  abject  thy  weakness !  how  great  is  thy  power  ! 
Thou  crawler  on  earth,  and  possible  (I  was  about  to  say)  controller  of 
the  skies  !  weigh,  and  weigh  well,  the  wondrous  truths  I  have  in  view  : 
which  cannot  be  weighed  too  much  ;  which  the  more  they  are  weighed, 
amaze  the  more ,  -which  to  have  supposed,  before  they  were  revealed, 
would  have  been  as  great  madness,  and  to  have  presumed  on  as  great 
sin,  as  it  is  now  madness  and  sin  not  to  believe." 

Even  in  his  Pindaric  odes,  in  which  he  made  the  most  vio- 
lent effort  against  nature,  he  is  still  neither  more  nor  less  than 
the  Young  of  the  "  Last  Day, "  emptied  and  swept  of  his 
genius,  and  possessed  by  seven  demons  of  fustian  and  bad 
rhyme.  Even  here,  his  "  Ercles'  vein "  alternates  with  his 


30  WOBLDLINESS  AND  OTHER  WORLDLINESS  : 

moral  platitudes,  and  we  have  the  perpetual  text  of  the  "  Night 
Thoughts  "  :— 

"  Gold  pleasure  buys ; 

But  pleasure  dies, 
For  soon  the  gross  fruition  oloys ; 
Though  raptures  court, 
The  sense  is  short ; 
But  virtue  kindles  living  joys  ; — 

"Joys  felt  alone ! 

Joys  asked  of  none  ! 
Which  Time's  and  Fortune's  arrows  miss: 

Joys  that  subsist, 

Though  fates  resist, 
An  unprecarious,  endless  bliss  I 

"  Unhappy  they  1 

And  falsely  gay ! 
Who  bask  forever  in  success ; 

A  constant  feast 

Quite  palls  the  taste, 
And  long  enjoyment  is  distress." 

In  the  "  Last  Day, "  again,  which  is  the  earliest  thing  he 
wrote,  we  have  an  anticipation  of  all  his  greatest  faults  and 
merits.  Conspicuous  among  the  faults  is  that  attempt  to  exalt 
our  conceptions  of  Deity  by  vulgar  images  and  comparisons, 
which  is  so  offensive  in  the  later  "Night  Thoughts."  In  a 
burst  of  prayer  and  homage  to  God,  called  forth  by  the  con- 
templation of  Christ  coming  to  judgment,  he  asks,  Who  brings 
the  change  of  the  seasons?  and  answers — 

"Not  the  great  Ottoman,  or  greater  Czar ; 
Not  Europe's  arbitress  of  peace  and  war  ! " 

Conceive  the  soul,  in  its  most  solemn  moments,  assuring  God 
that  it  does  not  place  His  power  below  that  of  Louis  Napoleon 
or  Queen  Victoria! 

But  in  the  midst  of  uneasy  rhymes,  inappropriate  imagery, 
vaulting  sublimity  that  o'erleaps  itself,  and  vulgar  emotions, 
we  have  in  this  poem  an  occasional  flash  of  genius,  a  toucfi 
of  simple  grandeur,  which  promises  as  much  as  Young  ever 
achieved.  Describing  the  oncoming  of  the  dissolution  of  all 
things,  he  says: — 


THE  POET  YOUNG.  31 

"No  sun  in  radiant  glory  shines  on  high; 
No  light  butjrom  the  terrors  of  the  sky." 

And  again,  speaking  of  great  armies : — 

"Whose  rear  lay  wrapt  in  night,  while  breaking  dawn 
Rous'd  the  broad  front,  and  call'd  the  battle  on." 

And  this  wail  of  the  lost  souls  is  fine : — 

"And  this  for  sin? 
Could  I  offend  if  I  had  never  been? 
But  still  increas'd  the  senseless,  happy  mass, 
Flow'd  in  the  stream,  or  shiver' d  in  the  grass  f 
Father  of  mercies  !  why  from  silent  earth 
Didst  Thou  awake  and  curse  me  into  birth? 
Tear  me  from  quiet,  ravish  me  from  night, 
And  make  a  thankless  present  of  Thy  light? 
Push  into  being  a  reverse  of  Thee, 
And  animate  a  clod  with  misery  ?  " 

But  it  is  seldom  in  Young's  rhymed  poems  that  the  effect  of 
a  felicitous  thought  or  image  is  not  counteracted  by  our  sense 
of  the  constraint  he  suffered  from  the  necessities  of  rhyme, — 
that  "  Gothic  demon, "  as  he  afterward  called  it,  "  which  mod- 
ern poetry  tasting,  became  mortal."  In  relation  to  his  own 
power,  no  one  will  question  the  truth  of  his  dictum,  that 
"  blank  verse  is  verse  unf alien,  uncurst ;  verse  reclaimed,  re- 
enthroned  in  the  true  language  of  the  gods ;  who  never  thun- 
dered nor  suffered  their  Homer  to  thunder  in  rhyme."  His 
want  of  mastery  in  rhyme  is  especially  a  drawback  on  the 
effect  of  his  Satires ;  for  epigrams  and  witticisms  are  pecul- 
iarly susceptible  to  the  intrusion  of  a  superfluous  word,  or  to 
an  inversion  which  implies  constraint.  Here,  even  more  than 
elsewhere,  the  art  that  conceals  art  is  an  absolute  requisite, 
and  to  have  a  witticism  presented  to  us  in  limping  or  cumbrous 
rhythm  is  as  counteractive  to  any  electrifying  effect  as  to  see 
the  tentative  grimaces  by  which  a  comedian  prepares  a  gro- 
tesque countenance.  We  discern  the  process,  instead  of  being 
startled  by  the  result. 

This  is  one  reason  why  the  Satires,  read  seriatim,  have  a 
flatness  to  us,  which,  when  we  afterward  read  picked  pass- 
ages, we  are  inclined  to  disbelieve  in,  and  to  attribute  to  some 


32  WORLDLINESS  AND  OTHER- WORLDLINESS: 

deficiency  in  our  own  mood.  But  there  are  deeper  reasons  for 
that  dissatisfaction.  Young  is  not  a  satirist  of  a  high  order. 
His  satire  has  neither  the  terrible  vigor,  the  lacerating  energy 
of  genuine  indignation,  nor  the  humor  which  owns  loving  fel- 
lowship with  the  poor  human  nature  it  laughs  at;  nor  yet  the 
personal  bitterness  which,  as  in  Pope's  characters  of  Sporus 
and  Atticus,  insures  those  living  touches  by  virtue  of  which 
the  individual  and  particular  in  Art  becomes  the  universal  and 
immortal.  Young  could  never  describe  a  real  complex  human 
being;  but  what  he  could  do  with  eminent  success,  was  to  de- 
scribe with  neat  and  finished  point  obvious  types  of  manners 
rather  than  of  character, — to  write  cold  and  clever  epigrams 
on  personified  vices  and  absurdities.  There  is  no  more  emo- 
tion in  his  satire  than  if  he  were  turning  witty  verses  on  a 
waxen  image  of  Cupid,  or  a  lady's  glove.  He  has  none  of 
those  felicitous  epithets,  none  of  those  pregnant  lines,  by 
which  Pope's  Satires  have  enriched  the  ordinary  speech  of  ed- 
ucated men.  Young's  wit  will  be  found  in  almost  every  in- 
stance to  consist  in  that  antithetic  combination  of  ideas  which, 
of  all  the  forms  of  wit,  is  most  within  reach  of  clever  effort. 
In  his  gravest  arguments,  as,  well  as  in  his  lightest  satire,  one 
might  imagine  that  he  had  set  himself  to  work  out  the  problem, 
how  much  antithesis  might  be  got  out  of  a  given  subject.  And 
there  he  completely  succeeds.  His  neatest  portraits  are  all 
wrought  on  this  plan.  Narcissus,  for  example,  who — 

"Omits  no  duty  ;  nor  can  Envy  say 
He  miss'd,  these  many  years,  the  Church  or  Play 
He  makes  no  noise  in  Parliament,  'tis  true  ; 
But  pays  his  debts,  and  visit  when  'tis  due ; 
His  character  and  gloves  are  ever  clean, 
And  then  he  can  out-bow  the  bowing  Dean ; 
A  smile  eternal  on  his  lip  he  wears, 
Which  equally  the  wise  and  worthless  shares. 
In  gay  fatigues,  this  most  undaunted  chief, 
Patient  of  idleness  beyond  belief, 
Most  charitably  lends  the  town  his  face 
For  ornament  in  every  public  place ; 
As  sure  as  cards  he  to  th'  assembly  comes, 
And  is  the  furniture  of  drawing-rooms : 
When  Ombre  calls,  his  hand  and  heart  are  free. 
And,  joined  to  two,  he  fails  not — to  make  three . 


THE  POET  YOUNG.  33 

Narcissus  is  the  glory  of  his  race  ; 

For  who  does  nothing  with  a  better  grace? 

To  deck  my  list  by  nature  were  designed 

Such  shining  expletives  of  human  kind, 

Who  want,  while  through  blank  life  they  dream  along, 

Sense  to  be  right  and  passion  to  be  wrong." 

It  is  but  seldom  that  we  find  a  touch,  of  that  easy  slyness 
which  gives  an  additional  zest  to  surprise}  but  here  is  an 
instance : — 

"See  Tityrus,  with  merriment  possest, 
Is  burst  with  laughter  ere  he  hears  the  jest. 
What  need  he  stay?  for  when  the  joke  is  o'er, 
His  teeth  will  be  no  whiter  than  before." 

Like  Pope,  whom  "he  imitated,  he  sets  out  with  a  psycholog- 
ical mistake  as  the  basis  of  his  satire,  attributing  all  forms  of 
folly  to  one  passion — the  love  of  fame,  or  vanity, — a  much 
grosser  mistake,  indeed,  than  Pope's  exaggeration  of  the  ex- 
tent to  which  the  "  ruling  passion  "  determines  conduct  in  the 
individual.  Not  that  Young  is  consistent  in  his  mistake. 
He  sometimes  implies  no  more  than  what  is  the  truth — that 
the  love  of  fame  is  the  cause,  not  of  all  follies,  but  of  many. 

Young's  satires  on  women  are  superior  to  Pope's}  which  is 
only  saying  that  they  are  superior  to  Pope's  greatest  failure. 
We  can  more  frequently  pick  out  a  couplet  as  successful  than 
an  entire  sketch.  Of  the  too  emphatic  Syrena,  he  says : — 

"  Her  judgment  just,  her  sentence  is  too  strong ; 
Because  she's  right,  she's  ever  in  the  wrong." 

Of  the  diplomatic  Julia : — 

"For  her  own  breakfast  she'll  project  a  scheme, 
Nor  take  her  tea  without  a  stratagem." 

Of  Lyce,  the  old  painted  coquette : — 

"  In  vain  the  cock  has  summoned  sprites  away ; 
She  walks  at  noon  and  blasts  the  bloom  of  day." 

Of  the  nymph  who,  "  gratis,  clears  religious  mysteries  "  :— 

"  'Tis  hard,  too,  she  who  makes  no  use  but  chat 
Of  her  religion,  should  be  barr'd  in  that." 

3 


34  WORLDLINESS  AND  OTHER  WORLDLINESS : 

The  description  of  the  literary  belle,  Daphne,  well  prefaces 
that  of  Stella,  admired  by  Johnson : — 

"With  legs  toss'd  high,  on  her  sopbee  she  sita, 
Vouchsafing  audience  to  contending  wits: 
Of  each  performance  she's  the  final  test ; 
One  act  read  o'er,  she  prophesies  the  rest ; 
And  then,  pronouncing  with  decisive  air, 
Fully  convinces  all  the  town — she's  fair. 
Had  lovely  Daphne  Hecatessa's  face, 
How  would  her  elegance  of  taste  decrease  I 
Some  ladies'  judgment  in  their  features  lies, 
And  all  their  genius  sparkles  in  their  eyes. 
But  hold,  she  cries,  lampooner !  have  a  care : 
Must  I  want  common  sense  because  I'm  fair? 
O  no ;  see  Stella  •  her  eyes  shine  &s  bright 
As  if  her  tongue  was  never  in  the  right ; 
And  yet  what  real  learning,  judgment,  fire ! 
She  seems  inspir'd,  and  can  herself  inspire. 
How  then  (if  malice  ruled  not  all  the  fair) 
Could  Daphne  publish,  and  could  she  forbear  1" 

After  all,  when  we  have  gone  through  Young's  seven  Sa- 
tires, we  seem  to  have  made  but  an  indifferent  meal.  They 
are  a  sort  of  fricassee,  with  little  solid  meat  in  them,  and  yet 
the  flavor  is  not  always  piquant.  It  is  curious  to  find  him, 
when  he  pauses  a  moment  from  his  satiric  sketching,  recurring 
to  his  old  platitudes : — 

"Can  gold  calm  passion,  or  make  reason  shine  ? 
Can  we  dig  peace  or  wisdom  from  the  mine? 
Wisdom  to  gold  prefer  " ; 

platitudes  which  he  seems  inevitably  to  fall  into,  for  the  same 
reason  that  some  men  are  constantly  asserting  their  contempt 
for  criticism — because  he  felt  the  opposite  so  keenly. 

The  outburst  of  genius  in  the  earlier  books  of  the  "  Night 
Thoughts  "  is  the  more  remarkable,  that  in  the  interval  be- 
tween them  and  the  Satires,  he  had  produced  nothing  but  his 
Pindaric  odes,  in  which  he  fell  far  below  the  level  of  his  pre- 
vious works.  Two  sources  of  this  sudden  strength  were  the 
freedom  of  blank  verse  and  the  presence  of  a  genuine  emotion. 
Most  persons,  in  speaking  of  the  "Night  Thoughts,"  have  in 
their  minds  only  the  two  or  three  first  Nights,  the  majority  of 


THE  POET  YOUNG.  36 

readers  rarely  getting  beyond  these,  unless,  as  Wilson  says, 
they  "  have  but  few  books,  are  poor,  and  live  in  the  country." 
And  in  these  earlier  Nights  there  is  enough  genuine  sublimity 
and  genuine  sadness  to  bribe  us  into  too  favorable  a  judgment 
of  them  as  a  whole.  Young  had  only  a  very  few  things  to  say 
or  sing — such  as  that  life  is  vain,  that  death  is  imminent,  that 
man  is  immortal,  that  virtue  is  wisdom,  that  friendship  is 
sweet,  and  that  the  source  of  virtue  is  the  contemplation  of 
death  and  immortality,  — and  even  in  his  two  first  Nights  he 
had  said  almost  all  he  had  to  say  in  his  finest  manner. 
Through  these  first  outpourings  of  "  complaint "  we  feel  that 
the  poet  is  really  sad,  that  the  bird  is  singing  over  a  rifled 
nest ;  and  we  bear  with  his  morbid  picture  of  the  world  and 
of  life,  as  the  Job-like  lament  of  a  man  whom  "  the  hand  of 
God  hath  touched."  Death  has  carried  away  his  best-beloved, 
and  that  "  silent  land  "  whither  they  are  gone  has  more  reality 
for  the  desolate  one  than  this  world  which  is  empty  of  their 
love : — 

"This  is  the  desert,  this  the  solitude  ; 
How  populous,  how  vital  is  the  grave ! " 

Joy  died  with  the  loved  one : — 

"The  disenchanted  earth 

Lost  all  her  lustre.     Where  her  glitt'ring  towers? 
Her  golden  mountains,  where?    All  darken 'd  down 
To  naked  waste  ;  a  dreary  vale  of  tears  . 
The  great  magician's  dead ! " 

Under  the  pang  of  parting,  it  seems  to  the  bereaved  man  as  if 
love  were  only  a  nerve  to  suffer  with,  and  he  sickens  at  the 
thought  of  every  joy  of  which  he  must  one  day  say — "  it  was." 
In  its  unreasoning  anguish,  the  soul  rushes  to  the  idea  of  per- 
petuity as  the  one  element  of  bliss : — 

"O  ye  blest  scenes  of  permanent  delight ! — 
Could  ye,  so  rich  in  rapture,  fear  an  end, — 
That  ghastly  thought  would  drink  up  all  your  joy, 
And  quite  unparadise  the  realms  of  light." 

In  a  man  under  the  immediate  pressure  of  a  great  sorrow, 
we  tolerate  morbid  exaggerations ;  we  are  prepared  to  see  him 


36  WORLDLINESS  AND   OTHER-WORLDLINESS  : 

turn  away  a  weary  eye  from  sunlight  and  flowers  and  sweet 
human  faces,  as  if  this  rich  and  glorious  life  had  no  signifi- 
cance but  as  a  preliminary  of  death;  we  do  not  criticise  his 
views,  we  compassionate  his  feelings.  And  so  it  is  with 
Young  in  these  earlier  Nights.  There  is  already  some  arti- 
ficiality even  in  his  grief,  and  feeling  often  slides  into  rhetoric, 
but  through  it  all  we  are  thrilled  with  the  unmistakable  cry  of 
pain,  which  makes  us  tolerant  of  egoism  and  hyperbole : — 

"In  every  varied  posture,  place,  and  hour, 
How  widow 'd  ev'ry  thought  of  ev'ry  joy  ! 
Thought,  busy  thought !  too  busy  for  my  peace ! 
Through  the  dark  postern  of  time  long  elapsed 
Led  softly,  by  the  stillness  of  the  night, — 
Led  like  a  murderer  (and  such  it  proves  !) 
Strays  (wretched  rover  !)  o'er  the  pleasing  past, — 
In  quest  of  wretchedness,  perversely  strays  ; 
And  finds  all  desert  now  ;  and  meets  the  ghosts 
Of  my  departed  joys." 

But  when  he  becomes  didactic,  rather  than  complaining, — 
when  he  ceases  to  sing  his  sorrows,  and  begins  to  insist  on  his 
opinions, — when  that  distaste  for  life  which  we  pity  as  a 
transient  feeling,  is  thrust  upon  us  as  a  theory,  we  become 
perfectly  cool  and  critical,  and  are  not  in  the  least  inclined  to 
be  indulgent  to  false  views  and  selfish  sentiments. 

Seeing  that  we  are  about  to  be  severe  on  Young's  failings  and 
failures,  we  ought,  if  a  reviewer's  space  were  elastic,  to  dwell 
also  on  his  merits, — on  the  startling  vigor  of  his  imagery — on 
the  occasional  grandeur  of  his  thought — on  the  piquant  force 
of  that  grave  satire  into  which  his  meditations  continually 
run.  But,  since  our  "  limits  "  are  rigorous,  we  must  content 
ourselves  with  the  less  agreeable  half  of  the  critic's  duty  j  and 
we  may  the  rather  do  so,  because  it  would  be  difficult  to  say 
anything  new  of  Young  in  the  way  of  admiration,  while  we 
think  there  are  many  salutary  lessons  remaining  to  be  drawn 
from  his  faults. 

One  of  the  most  striking  characteristics  of  Young  is  his  rad- 
ical insincerity  as  a  poetic  artist.  This,  added  to  the  thin  and 
artificial  texture  of  his  wit,  is  the  true  explanation  of  the  par- 
adox— that  a  poet  who  is  often  inopportunely  witty  has  the 
opposite  vice  of  bombastic  absurdity.  The  source  of  all  gran- 


THE  POET  YOUNG.  37 

diloquence  is  the  want  of  taking  for  a  criterion  the  true  quali- 
ties of  the  object  described,  or  the  emotion  expressed.  The 
grandiloquent  man  is  never  bent  on  saying  what  he  feels  or 
what  he  sees,  but  on  producing  a  certain  effect  on  his  audience ; 
hence  he  may  float  away  into  utter  inanity  without  meeting 
any  criterion  to  arrest  him.  Here  lies  the  distinction  between 
grandiloquence  and  genuine  fancy  or  bold  imaginativeness. 
The  fantastic  or  the  boldly  imaginative  poet  may  be  as  sincere 
as  the  most  realistic :  he  is  true  to  his  own  sensibilities  or  in- 
ward vision,  and  in  his  wildest  flights  he  never  breaks  loose 
from  his  criterion — the  truth  of  his  own  mental  state.  Now, 
this  disruption  of  language  from  genuine  thought  and  feeling 
is  what  we  are  constantly  detecting  in  Young ;  and  his  insin- 
cerity is  the  more  likely  to  betray  him  into  absurdity,  because 
he  habitually  treats  of  abstractions,  and  not  of  concrete  objects 
or  specific  emotions.  He  descants  perpetually  on  virtue,  re- 
ligion, "  the  good  man, "  life,  death,  immortality,  eternity — sub- 
jects which  are  apt  to  give  a  factitious  grandeur  to  empty 
wordiness.  When  a  poet  floats  in  the  empyrean,  and  only 
takes  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  earth,  some  people  accept  the 
mere  fact  of  his  soaring  for  sublimity,  and  mistake  his  dim 
vision  of  earth  for  proximity  to  heaven.  Thus : — 

"  His  hand  the  good  man  fixes  on  the  skies, 
And  bids  earth  roll,  nor  feels  her  idle  whirl," 

may  perhaps  pass  for  sublime  with  some  readers.  But  pause 
a  moment  to  realize  the  image,  and  the  monstrous  absurdity 
of  a  man's  grasping  the  skies,  and  hanging  habitually  sus- 
pended there,  while  he  contemptuously  bids  the  earth  roll, 
warns  you  that  no  genuine  feeling  could  have  suggested  so  un- 
natural a  conception. 

Examples  of  such  vicious  imagery,  resulting  from  insincer- 
ity, may  be  found,  perhaps,  in  almost  every  page  of  the 
"Night  Thoughts."  But  simple  assertions  or  aspirations, 
undisguised  by  imagery,  are  often  equally  false.  No  writer 
whose  rhetoric  was  checked  by  the  slightest  truthful  inten- 
tions, could  have  said, — 

1    "  An  eye  of  awe  and  wonder  let  me  roll, 
And  roll  for  ev^r." 


38          WORLDLINESS  AND  OTHER  WORLDLINESS: 

Abstracting  the  more  poetical  associations  with  the  eye,  this 
is  hardly  less  absurd  than  if  he  had  wished  to  stand  forever 
with  his  mouth  open. 
Again — 

"Far  beneath 
A  soul  immortal  is  a  mortal  joy." 

Happily  for  human  nature,  we  are  sure  no  man  really  believes 
that.  Which  of  us  has  the  impiety  not  to  feel  that  our  souls 
are  only  too  narrow  for  the  joy  of  looking  into  the  trusting 
eyes  of  our  children,  of  reposing  on  the  love  of  a  husband  or 
wife, — nay,  of  listening  to  the  divine  voice  of  music,  or  watch- 
ing the  calm  brightness  of  autumn  afternoons?  But  Young 
could  utter  this  falsity  without  detecting  it,  because,  when  he 
spoke  of  "  mortal  joys,"  he  rarely  had  in  his  mind  any  object 
to  which  he  could  attach  sacredness.  He  was  thinking  of 
bishoprics  and  benefices,  of  smiling  monarchs,  patronizing 
prime  ministers,  and  a  "much  indebted  muse."  Of  anything 
between  these  and  eternal  bliss,  he  was  but  rarely  and  moder- 
ately conscious.  Often,  indeed,  he  sinks  very  much  below 
even  the  bishopric,  and  seems  to  have  no  notion  of  earthly 
pleasure,  but  such  as  breathes  gaslight  and  the  fumes  of  wine. 
His  picture  of  life  is  precisely  such  as  you  would  expect  from 
a  man  who  has  risen  from  his  bed  at  two  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon with  a  headache,  and  a  dim  remembrance  that  he  has 
added  to  his  "  debts  of  honor  " : — 

"What  wretched  repetition  cloys  us  here  ! 
What  periodic  potions  for  the  sick, 
Distemper'd  bodies,  and  distemper'd  minds  I" 

And  then  he  flies  off  to  his  usual  antithesis : — 

"In  an  eternity  what  scenes  shall  strike  ! 
Adventures  thicken,  novelties  surprise  ! " 

"  Earth "  means  lords  and  levees,  duchesses  and  Dalilahs, 
South-Sea  dreams  and  illegal  percentage ;  and  the  only  things 
distinctly  preferable  to  these  are,  eternity  and  the  stars. 
Deprive  Young  of  this  antithesis,  and  more  than  half  his  elo- 
quence would  be  shrivelled  up.  Place  him  on  a  breezy  com- 
mon, where  the  furze  is  in  its  golden  bloom,  where  children 
are  playing,  and  horses  are  standing  in  the  sunshine  with 


THE  POET   YOUNG.  39 

fondling  necks,  and  he  would  have  nothing  to  say.  Here  are 
neither  depths  of  guilt,  nor  heights  of  glory ;  and  we  doubt 
whether  in  such  a  scene  he  would  bo  able  to  pay  his  usual 
compliment  to  the  Creator : — 

"Where'er  I  turn,  what  claim  on  all  applause ! " 

It  is  true  that  he  sometimes — not  often — speaks  of  virtue  as 
capable  of  sweetening  life,  as  well  as  of  taking  the  sting  from 
death  and  winning  heaven ;  and,  lest  we  should  be  guilty  of 
any  unfairness  to  him,  we  will  quote  the  two  passages  which 
convey  this  sentiment  the  most  explicitly.  In  the  one,  he 
gives  Lorenzo  this  excellent  recipe  for  obtaining  cheerf ulness : — 

"  Go,  fix  some  weighty  truth ; 

Chain  down  some  passion ;  do  some  generous  good ; 
Teach  Ignorance  to  see,  or  Grief  to  smile ; 
Correct  thy  friend  ;  befriend  thy  greatest  foe  ; 
Or,  with  warm  heart,  and  confidence  divine, 
Spring  up,  and  lay  strong  hold  on  Him  who  made  thee." 

The  other  passage  is  vague,  but  beautiful,  and  its  music  has 
murmured  in  our  minds  for  many  years : — 

"  The  cuckoo  seasons  sing 
The  same  dull  note  to  such  as  nothing  prize 
But  what  those  seasons  from  the  teeming  earth 
To  doting  sense  indulge.     But  nobler  minds, 
Which  relish  fruit  unripen'd  by  the  sun, 
Make  their  days  various  ;  various  as  the  dyes 
On  the  dove's  neck,  which  wanton  in  his  rays. 
On  minds  of  dove-like  innocence  possess'd, 
On  lighten'd  minds  that  bask  in  Virtue's  beams, 
Nothing  hangs  tedious,  nothing  old  revolves 
In  that  for  which  they  long,  for  which  they  live. 
Their  glorious  efforts,  wing'd  with  heavenly  hopes, 
Each  rising  morning  sees  still  higher  rise ; 
Each  bounteous  dawn  its  novelty  presents 
To  worth  maturing,  new  strength,  lustre,  fame ; 
While  Nature's  circle,  like  a  chariot  wheel, 
Rolling  beneath  their  elevated  aims, 
Makes  their  fair  prospect  fairer  every  hour ; 
Advancing  virtue  in  a  line  to  bliss." 

Even  here,  where  he  is  in  his  most  amiable  mood,  you  see  at 
what  a  telescopic  distance  he  stands  from  mother  Earth  and 


40  WORLDLINES8  AND  OTHER- WORLDLINESS: 

simple  human  joys — "  Nature's  circle  rolls  beneath.  '•  Indeed, 
we  remember  no  mind  in  poetic  literature  that  seems  to  have 
absorbed  less  of  the  beauty  and  the  healthy  breath  of  the 
common  landscape  than  Young's.  His  images,  often  grand 
and  finely  presented — witness  that  sublimely  sudden  leap  of 
thought, 

"Embryos  we  must  be  till  we  burst  the  shell, 
Yon  ambient  azure  shell,  and  spring  to  life" — 

lie  almost  entirely  within  that  circle  of  observation  which 
would  be  familiar  to  a  man  who  lived  in  town,  hung  about  the 
theatres,  read  the  newspaper,  and  went  home  often  by  moon 
and  star  light.  There  is  no  natural  object  nearer  than  the 
moon  that  seems  to  have  any  strong  attraction  for  him,  and 
even  to  the  moon  he  chiefly  appeals  for  patronage,  and  "  pays 
his  court "  to  her.  It  is  reckoned  among  the  many  deficiencies 
of  Lorenzo,  that  he  "  never  asked  the  moon  one  question  " — an 
omission  which  Young  thinks  eminently  unbecoming  a  rational 
being.  He  describes  nothing  so  well  as  a  comet,  and  is  tempted 
to  linger  with  fond  detail  over  nothing  more  familiar  than  the 
day  of  judgment  and  an  imaginary  journey  among  the  stars. 
Once  on  Saturn's  ring,  he  feels  at  home,  and  his  language 
becomes  quite  easy : — 

"What  behold  I  now? 
A  wilderness  of  wonders  burning  round, 
Where  larger  sons  inhabit  higher  spheres ; 
Perhaps  the  villas  of  descending  gods ! " 

It  is  like  a  sudden  relief  from  a  strained  posture  when,  in 
the  "  Night  Thoughts, "  we  come  on  any  allusion  that  carries 
us  to  the  lanes,  woods,  or  fields.  Such  allusions  are  amaz- 
ingly rare,  and  we  could  almost  count  them  on  a  single  hand. 
That  we  may  do  him  no  injustice,  we  will  quote  the  three 
best : — 

"Like  blossomed  trees  o'erturned  by  vernal  storm, 
Lovely  in  death  the  beauteous  ruin  lay." 

"In  the  same  brook  none  ever  bathed  him  twice: 
To  the  same  life  none  ever  twice  awoke. 
We  call  the  brook  the  same — the  same  we  think 
Our  life,  though  still  more  rapid  in  its  flow ; 


THE  POET  YOUNG.  41 

Nor  mark  the  much  irrevocably  lapsed, 
And  mingled  with  the  sea." 

"The  crown  of  manhood  is  a  winter  joy  ; 
An  evergreen  that  stands  the  northern  blast, 
And  blossoms  in  the  rigor  of  our  fate." 

The  adherence  to  abstractions,  or  to  the  personification  of 
abstractions,  is  closely  allied  in  Young  to  the  want  of  genuine 
emotion.  He  sees  Virtue  sitting  on  a  mount  serene,  far  above 
the  mists  and  storms  of  earth :  he  sees  Religion  coming  down 
from  the  skies,  with  this  world  in  her  left  hand  and  the  other 
world  in  her  right :  but  we  never  find  him  dwelling  on  virtue 
or  religion  as  it  really  exists — in  the  emotions  of  a  man  dressed 
in  an  ordinary  coat,  and  seated  by  his  fireside  of  an  evening, 
with  his  hand  resting  on  the  head  of  his  little  daughter ;  in 
courageous  effort  for  unselfish  ends,  in  the  internal  triumph  of 
justice  and  pity  over  personal  resentment,  in  all  the  sublime 
self-renunciation  and  sweet  charities  which  are  found  in  the 
details  of  ordinary  life.  Now,  emotion  links  itself  with  par- 
ticulars, and  only  in  a  faint  and  secondary  manner  with  ab- 
stractions. An  orator  may  discourse  very  eloquently  on  injus- 
tice in  general,  and  leave  his  audience  cold ;  but  let  him  state 
a  special  case  of  oppression,  and  every  heart  will  throb.  The 
most  untheoretic  persons  are  aware  of  this  relation  between 
true  emotion  and  particular  facts,  as  opposed  to  general  terms, 
and  implicitly  recognize  it  in  the  repulsion  they  feel  toward 
any  one  who  professes  strong  feeling  about  abstractions, — • 
in  the  inter jectional  "humbug!  "  which  immediately  rises  to 
their  lips. 

If  we  except  the  passages  in  Philander,  Narcissa,  and  Lucia, 
there  is  hardly  a  trace  of  human  sympathy,  of  self -forgetful- 
ness  in  the  joy  or  sorrow  of  a  fellow -being,  throughout  this 
long  poem,  which  professes  to  treat  the  various  phases  of 
man's  destiny.  And  even  in  the  Narcissa  Night,  Young  repels 
us  by  the  low  moral  tone  of  his  exaggerated  lament.  This 
married  step-daughter  died  at  Lyons,  and,  being  a  Protestant, 
was  denied  burial,  so  that  her  friends  had  to  bury  her  in  secret 
— one  of  the  many  miserable  results  of  superstition,  but  not  a 
fact  to  throw  an  educated,  still  less  a  Christian  wan,  into  a 


42  WORLDLINESS  AND  OTHER-  WORLDLINESS  : 

fury  of  hatred  and  vengeance,  in  contemplating  it  after  the 
lapse  of  five  years.  Young,  however,  takes  great  pains  to 
simulate  a  bad  feeling : — 

"Of  grief 

And  indignation  rival  bursts  I  pour'd, 
Half  execration  mingled  with  my  pray'r; 
Kindled  at  man,  while  I  his  God  ador'd  ; 
Sore  grudg'd  the  savage  land  her  sacred  dust; 
Stamp 'd  the  cursed  soil ;  and  with  humanity 
(Denied  Narcissa)  wish'd  them  all  a  grave." 

The  odiously  bad  taste  of  this  last  clause  makes  up  hope  that 
it  is  simply  a  platitude,  and  not  intended  as  a  witticism,  until 
he  removes  the  possibility  of  this  favorable  doubt  by  immedi- 
ately asking,  "  Flows  my  resentment  into  guilt?  " 

When,  by  an  afterthought,  he  attempts  something  like  sym- 
pathy, he  only  betrays  more  clearly  his  want  of  it.  Thus,  in 
the  first  Night,  when  he  turns  from  his  private  griefs  to  depict 
earth  as  a  hideous  abode  of  misery  for  all  mankind,  and  asks— 

"What  then  am  I,  who  sorrow  for  myself?  " — 

he  falls  at  once  into  calculating  the  benefit  of  sorrowing  for 
others : — 

"  More  generous  sorrow,  while  it  sinks,  exalts : 
And  conscious  virtue  mitigates  the  pang. 
Nor  virtue,  more  than  prudence,  bids  me  give 
Swollen  thought  a  second  channel." 

This  remarkable  negation  of  sympathy  is  in  perfect  consistency 
with  Young's  theory  of  ethics: — 

"Virtue  is  a  crime, 
A  crime  to  reason,  if  it  costs  us  pain 
Unpaid." 

If  there  is  no  immortality  for  man, — 

"Sense  !  take  the  rein  ;  blind  Passion,  drive  us  on; 
And  Ignorance !  befriend  us  on  our  way.  .  .  . 
Yes ;  give  the  pulse  full  empire  ;  live  the  brute, 
Since  as  the  brute  we  die.     The  sum  of  man, 
Of  godlike  man,  to  revel  and  to  rot." 


THE  POET  YOUNG.  43 

"If  this  life's  gain  invites  him  to  the  deed, 
Why  not  his  country  sold,  his  father  slain?  " 

"Ambition,  avarice,  by  the  wise  disdain'd, 
Is  perfect  wisdom,  while  mankind  are  fools, 
And  think  a  turf  or  tombstone  covers  all." 

"  Die  for  thy  country,  thou  romantic  fool ! 
Seize,  seize  the  plank  thyself,  and  let  her  sink.". 

"As  in  the  dying  parent  dies  the  child, 
Virtue  with  Immortality  expires. 
Who  tells  me  he  denies  his  soul  immortal, 
Whatever  his  boast,  has  told  me  he's  a  knave. 
His  duty  'tis  to  love  himself  alone, 
Nor  care  though  mankind  perish,  if  he  smiles." 

We  can  imagine  the  man  who  "denies  his  soul 'immortal," 
replying,  "  It  is  quite  possible  that  you  would  be  a  knave,  and 
love  yourself  alone,  if  it  were  not  for  your  belief  in  immortal- 
ity ;  but  you  are  not  to  force  upon  me  what  would  result  from 
your  own  utter  want  of  moral  emotion.  I  am  just  and  honest, 
not  because  I  expect  to  live  in  another  world,  but  because, 
having  felt  the  pain  of  injustice  and  dishonesty  toward  myself, 
I  have  a  fellow-feeling  with  other  men,  who  would  suffer  the 
same  pain  if  I  were  unjust  or  dishonest  toward  them.  Why 
should  I  give  my  neighbor  short  weight  in  this  world,  because 
there  is  not  another  world  in  which  I  should  have  nothing  to 
weigh  out  to  him?  I  am  honest,  because  I  don't  like  to  inflict 
evil  on  others  in  this  life,  not  because  I'm  afraid  of  evil  to 
myself  in  another.  The  fact  is,  I  do  not  love  myself  alone, 
whatever  logical  necessity  there  may  be  for  that  conclusion  in 
your  mind.  I  have  a  tender  love  for  my  wife,  and  children, 
and  friends,  and  through  that  love  I  sympathize  with  like 
affections  in  other  men.  It  is  a  pang  to  me  to  witness  the 
suffering  of  a  fellow-being,  and  I  feel  his  suffering  the  more 
acutely  because  he  is  mortal — because  his  life  is  so  short,  and 
I  would  have  it,  if  possible,  filled  with  happiness  and  not  mis- 
ery. Through  my  union  and  fellowship  with  the  men  and 
women  I  have  seen,  I  feel  a  like,  though  a  fainter,  sympathy 
with  those  I  have  not  seen ;  and  I  am  able  so  to  live  in  imag- 
ination with  the  generations  to  come,  that  their  good  is  not 


44  WORLDLINESS  AND   OTHER-WORLDLINESS : 

alien  to  me,  and  is  a  stimulus  to  me  to  labor  for  ends  which, 
may  not  benefit  myself,  but  will  benefit  them.  It  is  possible 
that  you  might  prefer  to  '  live  the  brute, '  to  sell  your  countiy, 
or  to  slay  your  father,  if  you  were  not  afraid  of  some  disagree- 
able consequences  from  the  criminal  laws  of  another  world; 
but  even  if  I  could  conceive  no  motive  but  by  my  own  worldly 
interest  or  the  gratification  of  my  animal  desires,  I  have  not 
observed  that  beastliness,  treachery,  and  parricide,  are  the 
direct  way  to  happiness  and  comfort  on  earth." 

Thus  far  the  man  who  "  denies  himself  immortal "  might  give 
a  warrantable  reply  to  Young's  assumption  of  peculiar  lofti- 
ness in  maintaining  that  "virtue  with  immortality  expires." 
We  may  admit,  indeed,  that  if  the  better  part  of  virtue  con- 
sists, as  Young  appears  to  think,  in  contempt  for  mortal  joys, 
in  "  meditation  of  our  own  decease,"  and  in  "applause  "of 
God  in  the  style  of  a  congratulatory  address  to  her  Majesty 
— all  which  has  small  relation  to  the  well-being  of  mankind  on 
this  earth — the  motive  to  it  must  be  gathered  from  something 
that  lies  quite  outside  the  sphere  of  human  sympathy.  But, 
for  certain  other  elements  of  virtue,  which  are  of  more  obvious 
importance  to  plain  people, — a  delicate  sense  of  our  neighbor's 
rights,  an  active  participation  in  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  our 
fellow-men,  a  magnanimous  acceptance  of  privation  or  suffer- 
ing for  ourselves  when  it  is  the  condition  of  rescue  for  others 
— in  a  word,  the  widening  and  strengthening  of  our  sympa- 
thetic nature, — it  is  surely  of  some  moment  to  contend,  that 
they  have  no  more  direct  dependence  on  the  belief  in  a  future 
state  than  the  interchange  of  gases  in  the  lungs  on  the  plural- 
ity of  worlds.  Nay,  it  is  conceivable  that  in  some  minds  the 
deep  pathos  lying  in  the  thought  of  human  mortality — that  we 
are  here  for  a  little  while  and  then  vanish  away,  that  this 
earthly  life  is  all  that  is  given  to  our  loved  ones  and  to  our 
many  suffering  fellow-men — lies  nearer  the  fountains  of  moral 
emotion  than  the  conception  of  extended  existence.  And 
surely  it  ought  to  be  a  welcome  fact,  if  the  thought  of  mortal- 
ity, as  well  as  of  immortality,  be  favorable  to  virtue.  We  can 
imagine  that  the  proprietors  of  a  patent  water-supply  may 
have  a  dread  of  common  springs ;  but  for  those  who  only  share 
the  general  need  there  cannot  be  too  great  a  security  against  a 


THE  POET  YOUNG.  .  45 

lack  of  fresh  water — or  of  pure  morality.  It  should  be  matter 
of  unmixed  rejoicing  if  this  latter  necessary  of  healthful  life 
has  its  evolution  insured  in  the  interaction  of  human  souls  as 
certainly  as  the  evolution  of  science  or  of  art,  with  which,  in- 
deed, it  is  but  a  twin  ray,  melting  into  them  with  undefinable 
limits. 

To  return  to  Young.  We  can  often  detect  a  man's  defi- 
ciencies in  what  he  admires  more  clearly  than  in  what  he  con- 
temns, — in  the  sentiments  he  presents  as  laudable  rather  than 
in  those  he  decries.  And  in  Young's  notion  of  what  is  lofty 
he  casts  a  shadow  by  which  we  can  measure  him  without  fur- 
ther trouble.  For  example,  in  arguing  for  human  immortality, 
he  says : — 

"First,  what  is  true  ambition  ?    The  pursuit 
Of  glory  nothing  less  than  man  can  share. 

The  Visible  and  Present  are  for  brutes, 
A  slender  portion,  and  a  narrow  bound  ! 
These  Reason,  with  an  energy  divine 
O'erleaps,  and  claims  the  Future  and  Unseen  ; 
The  vast  Unseen,  the  Future  fathomless  ! 
When  the  great  soul  buoys" up  to  this  high  point, 
Leaving  gross  Nature's  sediments  below, 
Then,  and  then  only,  Adam's  offspring  quits 
The  sage  and  hero  of  the  fields  and  woods, 
Asserts  his  rank,  and  rises  into  man." 

So,  then,  if  it  were  certified  that,  as  some  benevolent  minds 
have  tried  to  infer,  our  dumb  fellow-creatures  would  share  a 
future  existence,  in  which  it  is.  to  be  hoped  we  should  neither 
beat,  starve,  nor  maim  them,  our  ambition  for  a  future  life 
would  cease  to  be  "  lofty  " !  This  is  a  notion  of  loftiness  which 
may  pair  off  with  Dr.  Whewell's  celebrated  observation,  that 
Bentham's  moral  theory  is  low,  because  it  includes  justice  and 
mercy  to  brutes. 

But,  for  a  reflection  of  Young's  moral  personality  on  a  colos- 
sal scale,  we  must  turn  to  those  passages  where  his  rhetoric  is 
at  its  utmost  stretch  of  inflation — where  he  addresses  the 
Deity,  discourses  of  the  Divine  operations,  or  describes  the  last 
•judgment.  As  a  compound  of  vulgar  pomp,  crawling  adula- 
\bn,  and  hard  selfishness,  presented  under  the  guise  of  piety, 


46          WORLDLINESS  AND  OTHER-  WORLDLINES8  : 

there  are  few  things  in  literature  to  surpass  the  ninth  Night, 
entitled  "  Consolation,  '•'  especially  in  the  pages  where  he  de- 
scribes the  last  judgment — a  subject  to  which,  with  naive  self- 
betrayal,  he  applies  phraseology  favored  by  the  exuberant 
penny-a-liner.  Thus,  when  God  descends,  and  the  groans  of 
hell  are  opposed  by  "  shouts  of  joy,"  much  as  cheers  and  groans 
contend  at  a  public  meeting  where  the  resolutions  are  not 
passed  unanimously,  the  poet  completes  his  climax  in  this 
way: — 

"  Hence,  in  one  peal  of  loud,  eternal  praise, 
The  charmed  spectators  thunder  their  applause." 

In  the  same  taste,  he  sings : — 

"  Eternity,  the  various  sentence  past, 
Assigns  the  sever 'd  throng  distinct  abodes, 
Sulphureous  or  ambrosial." 

Exquisite  delicacy  of  indication !  He  is  too  nice  to  be  specific 
as  to  the  interior  of  the  "  sulphureous  "  abode  j  but  when  once 
half  the  human  race  are  shut  up  there,  hear  how  he  enjoys 
turning  the  key  on  them! — 

"What  ensues? 

The  deed  predominant,  the  deed  of  deeds ! 
Which  makes  a  hell  of  hell,  a  heaven  of  heaven  I 
The  goddess,  with  determin'd  aspect,  turns 
Her  adamantine  key's  enormous  size 
Through  Destiny 's  inextricable  wards, 
Deep  driving  every  bolt  on  both  their  fates. 
Then,  from  the  crystal  battlements  of  heaven, 
Down,  down  she  hurls  it  through  the  dark  profound, 
Ten  thousand,  thousand  fathom ;  there  to  rust 
And  ne'er  unlock  her  resolution  more. 
The  deep  resounds  ;  and  Hell,  through  all  her  glooms, 
Returns,  in  groans,  the  melancholy  roar." 

This  is  one  of  the  blessings  for  which  Dr.  Young  thanks 
God  "  most "  :— 

"  For  all  I  bless  Thee,  most,  for  the  severe 
Her  death — my  own  at  hand — the  fiery  gulf, 
That  flaming  bound  of  wrath  omnipotent  I 
It  thunders ; — but  it  thunders  to  preserve ; 

its  wholesome  dread 

Averts  the  dreaded  pain ;  its  hideous  groan* 


THE  POET  YOUNG.  47 

Join  Heaven's  sweet  Hallelujahs  in  Thy  praise, 

Great  Source  of  good  alone  !     How  kind  in  all ! 

In  vengeance  kind!     Pain,  Death,  Gehenna,  save"  .  „  . 

i.e.,  save  me,  Dr.  Young,  who,  in  return  for  that  favor,  prom- 
ise to  give  my  divine  patron  the  monopoly  of  that  exuberance 
in  laudatory  epithet,  of  which  specimens  may  be  seen  at  any 
moment  in  a  large  number  of  dedications  and  odes  to  kings, 
queens,  prime  ministers,  and  other  persons  of  distinction. 
That,  in  Young's  conception,  is  what  God  delights  in.  His 
crowning  aim  in  the  "  drama  "  of  the  ages  is  to  vindicate  his 
own  renown.  The  God  of  the  "  Night  Thoughts  "  is  simply 
Young  himself  "  writ  large  " — a  didactic  poet,  who  "  lectures  " 
mankind  in  the  antithetic  hyperbole  of  mortal  and  immortal 
joys,  earth  and  the  stars,  hell  and  heaven;  and  expects  the 
tribute  of  inexhaustible  "  applause. "  Young  has  no  concep- 
tion of  religion  as  anything  else  than  egoism  turned  heaven- 
ward ;  and  he  does  not  merely  imply  this,  he  insists  on  it. 
Religion,  he  tells  us,  in  argumentative  passages  too  long  to 
quote,  is  "  ambition,  pleasure,  and  the  love  of  gain, "  directed 
toward  the  joys  of  the  future  life  instead  of  the  present.  And 
his  ethics  correspond  to  his  religion.  He  vacillates,  indeed, 
in  his  ethical  theory,  and  shifts  his  position  in  order  to  suit 
his  immediate  purpose  in  argument;  but  he  never  changes 
his  level  so  as  to  see  beyond  the  horizon  of  mere  selfishness. 
Sometimes  he  insists,  as  we  have  seen,  that  the  belief  in  a  fu- 
ture life  is  the  only  basis  of  morality ;  but  elsewhere  he  tells 
us — 

"In  self-applause  is  virtue's  golden  prize." 

Virtue,  with  Young,  must  always  squint — must  never  look 
straight  toward  the  immediate  object  of  its  emotion  and  effort. 
Thus,  if  a  man  risks  perishing  in  the  snow  himself  rather  than 
forsake  a  weaker  comrade,  he  must  either  do  this  because  his 
hopes  and  fears  are  directed  to  another  world,  or  because  he 
desires  to  applaud  himself  afterward !  Young,  if  we  may  be- 
lieve him,  would  despise  the  action  as  folly  unless  it  had  these 
motives.  Let  us  hope  he  was  not  so  bad  as  he  pretended  to 
be !  The  tides  of  the  divine  life  in  man  move  under  the  thick- 
est ice  of  theory.  , 


WORLDLINESS  AND   OTHER-WORLDLINESS : 

Another  indication  of  Young's  deficiency  in  moral,  i.e.,  in 
sympathetic  emotion,  is  his  unintermitting  habit  of  pedagogic 
moralizing.  On  its  theoretic  and  perceptive  side,  Morality- 
touches  Science ;  on  its  emotional  side,  poetic  Art.  Now,  the 
products  of  poetic  Art  are  great  in  proportion  as  they  result 
from  the  immediate  prompting  of  innate  power,  and  not  from 
labored  obedience  to  a  theory  or  rule;  and  the  presence  of 
genius  or  innate  prompting  is  directly  opposed  to  the  perpetual 
consciousness  of  a  rule.  The  action  of  faculty  is  imperious, 
and  supersedes  the  reflection  why  it  should  act.  In  the  same 
way,  in  proportion  as  morality  is  emotional,  it  will  exhibit 
itself  in  direct  sympathetic  feeling  and  action,  and  not  as  the 
recognition  of  a  rule.  Love  does  not  say,  "  I  ought  to  love  "- 
it  loves.  Pity  does  not  say,  "  It  is  right  to  be  pitiful " — it 
pities.  Justice  does  not  say,  "I  am  bound  to  be  just" — it 
feels  justly.  It  is  only  where  moral  emotion  is  comparatively 
weak  that  the  contemplation  of  a  rule  or  theory  habitually 
mingles  with  its  action ;  and  in  accordance  with  this,  we  think 
experience,  both  in  literature  and  life,  has  shown  that  the 
minds  which  are  predominantly  didactic,  are  deficient  in 
sympathetic  emotion.  A  man  who  is  perpetually  thinking  in 
monitory  apothegms,  who  has  an  unintermittent  flux  of  rebuke, 
can  have  little  energy  left  for  simple  feeling.  And  this  is  the 
case  with  Young.  In  his  highest  flights  of  contemplation, 
and  his  most  wailing  soliloquies,  he  interrupts  himself  to  fling 
an  admonitory  parenthesis  at  Lorenzo,  or  to  hint  that  "folly's 
creed"  is  the  reverse  of  his  own.  Before  his  thoughts  can 
flow,  he  must  fix  his  eye  on  an  imaginary  miscreant,  who  gives 
unlimited  scope  for  lecturing,  and  recriminates  just  enough  to 
keep  the  spring  of  admonition  and  argument  going  to  the  ex- 
tent of  nine  books.  It  is  curious  to  see  how  this  pedagogic 
habit  of  mind  runs  through  Young's  contemplation  of  Nature. 
As  the  tendency  to  see  our  own  sadness  reflected  in  the  exter- 
nal world  has  been  called  by  Mr.  Ruskin  the  "  pathetic  fal- 
lacy, "  so  we  may  call  Young' s  disposition  to  see  a  rebuke  or  a 
warning  in  every  natural  object,  the  "  pedagogic  fallacy."  To 
his  mind,  the  heavens  are  "forever  scolding  as  they  shine"; 
and  the  great  function  of  the  stars  is  to  be  a  "  lecture  to  man- 
kind." The  conception  of  the  Beity  as  a  didactic  author  is 


THE  POET  YOUNG.  49 

not  merely  an  implicit  point  of  view  with  him ;  he  works  it 
out  in  elaborate  imagery,  and  at  length  makes  it  the  occasion 
of  his  most  extraordinary  achievement  in  the  "  art  of  sinking," 
by  exclaiming — a  propos,  we  need  hardly  say,  of  the  nocturnal 
heavens — 

"Divine  Instructor  I  Thy  first  volume  this 
For  man's  perusal !  all  in  CAPITALS  1 " 

.  It  is  this  pedagogic  tendency,  this  sermonizing  attitude  of 
Young' s  mind,  which  produces  the  wearisome  monotony  of  his 
pauses.  After  the  first  two  or  three  Nights,  he  is  rarely  sing- 
ing, rarely  pouring  forth  any  continuous  melody  inspired  by 
the  spontaneous  flow  of  thought  or  feeling.  He  is  rather  occu- 
pied with  argumentative  insistence,  with  hammering  in  the 
proofs  of  his  propositions  by  disconnected  verses,  which  he 
puts  down  at  intervals.  The  perpetual  recurrence  of  the 
pause  at  the  end  of  the  line  throughout  long  passages,  makes 
them  as  fatiguing  to  the  ear  as  a  monotonous  chant,  which 
consists  of  the  endless  repetition  of  one  short  musical  phrase. 
For  example : — 

"Past  hours, 

If  not  by  guilt,  yet  wound  us  by  their  flight, 

If  folly  bound  our  prospect  by  the  grave, 

All  feeling  of  futurity  be  numb'd, 

All  godlike  passion  for  eternals  quench'd, 

All  relish  of  realities  expired  ; 

Renounced  all  correspondence  with  the  skies  ; 

Our  freedom  chain 'cl  ;  quite  wingless  our  desire; 

In  sense  dark-prison'd  all  that  ought  to  soar; 

Prone  to  the  centre  ;  crawling  in  the  dust; 

Dismounted  every  great  and  glorious  aim ; 

Enthralled  every  faculty  divine, 

Heart-buried  in  the  rubbish  of  the  world." 

How  different  from  the  easy,  graceful  melody  of  Cowper's 
blank  verse!  Indeed  it  is  hardly  possible  to  criticise  Young, 
without  being  reminded  at  every  step  of  the  contrast  presented 
to  him  by  Cowper.  And  this  contrast  urges  itself  upon  us 
the  more  from  the  fact  that  there  is,  to  a  certain  extent,  a 
parallelism  between  the  "Night  Thoughts"  and  the  "Task." 
In  both  poems,  the  author  achieves  his  greatest  in  virtue  of 
the  new  freedom  conferred  by  blank  verse ;  both  poems  are 
4 


50          WORLDLINESS  AND  OTHER-  WORLDLINESS  : 

professedly  didactic,  and  mingle  much  satire  with  their  graver 
meditations;  both  poems  are  the  productions  of  men  whose 
estimate  of  this  life  was  formed  by  the  light  of  a  belief  in 
immortality,  and  who  were  intensely  attached  to  Christianity. 
On  some  grounds,  we  might  have  anticipated  a  more  morbid 
view  of  things  from  Cowper  than  from  Young.  Cowper's  re- 
ligion was  dogmatically  the  more  gloomy,  for  he  was  a  Cal- 
vinist;  while  Young  was  a  "  low "  Arminian,  believing  that 
Christ  died  for  all,  and  that  the  only  obstacle  to  any  man's 
salvation  lay  in  his  will,  which  he  could  change  if  he  chose. 
There  was  deep  and  unusual  sadness  involved  in  Cowper's 
personal  lot;  while  Young,  apart  from  his  ambitious  and 
greedy  discontent,  seems  to  have  had  no  exceptional  sorrow. 

Yet  see  how  a  lovely,  sympathetic  nature  manifests  itself  in 
spite  of  creed  and  circumstance!  Where  is  the  poem  that  sur- 
passes the  "  Task "  in  the  genuine  love  it  breathes,  at  once 
toward  inanimate  and  animate  existence.— in  truthfulness  of 
perception  and  sincerity  of  presentation — in  the  calm  gladness 
that  springs  from  a  delight  in  objects  for  their  own  sake,  with- 
out self-reference — in  divine  sympathy  with  the  lowliest  pleas- 
ures, with  the  most  short-lived  capacity  for  pain?  Here  is 
no  railing  at  the  earth's  "melancholy  map,"  but  the  happiest 
lingering  over  her  simplest  scenes  with  all  the  fond  minute- 
ness of  attention  that  belongs  to  love;  no  pompous  rhetoric 
about  the  inferiority  of  the  "brutes,"  but  a  warm  plea  on 
their  behalf  against  man's  inconsiderateness  and  cruelty,  and 
a  sense  of  enlarged  happiness  from  their  companionship  in 
enjoyment;  no  vague  rant  about  human  misery  and  human 
virtue,  but  that  close  and  vivid  presentation  of  particular  sor- 
rows and  privations,  of  particular  deeds  and  misdeeds,  which 
is  the  direct  road  to  the  emotions.  How  Cowper's  exquisite 
mind  falls  with  the  mild  warmth  of  morning  sunlight  on  the 
commonest  objects,  at  once  disclosing  every  detail  and  invest- 
ing every  detail  with  beauty!  No  object  is  too  small  to 
prompt  his  song — not  the  sooty  film  on  the  bars,  or  the  spout- 
less teapot  holding  a  bit  of  mignonette  that  serves  to  cheer 
the  dingy  town-lodging  with  a  "  hint  that  Nature  lives  " ;  and 
yet  his  song  is  never  trivial,  for  he  is  alive  to  small  objects, 
not  because  his  mind  is  narrow,  bat  because  his  glance  is  clear 


THE  POET  YOUNG.  51 

and  his  heart  is  large.  Instead  of  trying  to  edify  us  oy  super- 
cilious allusions  to  the  "  brutes  "  and  the  "  stalls, "  he  interests 
us  in  that  tragedy  of  the  hen-roost  when  the  thief  has  wrenched 
the  door — 

"Where  Chanticleer  amidst  his  harem  sleeps 
In  unsuspecting  pomp  "; 

in  the  patient  cattle,  that  on  the  winter's  morning 

"  Mourn  in  corners  where  the  fence 
Screens  them,  and  seem  half  petrified  to  sleep 
In  unrecumbent  sadness  "; 

in  the  little  squirrel,  that,  surprised  by  him  in  his  woodland 
walk, 

"At  once,  swift  as  a  bird, 

Ascends  the  neighboring  beech ;  there  whisks  his  brush, 

And  perks  his  ears,  and  stamps,  and  cries  aloud, 

With  all  the  prettiness  of  feigned  alarm 

And  anger  insignificantly  fierce." 

And  then  he  passes  into  reflection,  not  with  curt  apothegm 
and  snappish  reproof,  but  with  that  melodious  flow  of  utter- 
ance which  belongs  to  thought  when  it  is  carried  in  a  stream 
of  feeling : — 

"The  heart  is  hard  in  nature,  and  unfit 
For  human  fellowship,  as  being  void 
Of  sympathy,  and  therefore  dead  alike 
To  love  and  friendship  both,  that  is  not  pleased 
With  sight  of  animals  enjoying  life, 
Nor  feels  their  happiness  augment  his  own." 

His  large  and  tender  heart  embraces  the  most  every-day  forms 
of  human  life :  the  carter  driving  his  team  through  the  wintry 
storm;  the  cottager's  wife  who,  painfully  nursing  the- embers 
on  her  hearth,  while  her  infants  "  sit  cowering  o'er  the  sparks," 

"  Retires,  content  to  quake,  so  they  be  warmed  " ; 
or  the  villager,  with  her  little  ones,  going  out  to  pick 
"  A  cheap  but  wholesome  salad  from  the  brook  " ; 

and  he  compels  our  colder  natures  to  follow  his  in  its  manifold 
sympathies,  not  by  exhortations,  not  by  telling  us  to  meditate 


52          WORLDLINESS  AND  OTHER-WORLDLINESS  : 

at  midnight,  to  "  indulge  "  the  thought  of  death,  or  to  ask  our- 
selves how  we  shall  "  weather  an  eternal  night, "  but  by  pre' 
senting  to  us  the  object  of  his  compassion  truthfully  and  lovingly. 
And  when  he  handles  greater  themes,  when  he  takes  a  wider 
survey,  and  considers  the  men  or  the  deeds  which  have  a  di- 
rect influence  on  the  welfare  of  communities  and  nations,  there 
is  the  same  unselfish  warmth  of  feeling,  the  same  scrupulous 
truthfulness.  He  is  never  vague  in  his  remonstrance  or  his 
satire;  but  puts  his  finger  on^sorne  particular  vice  or  folly, 
which  excites  his  indignation  or  "  dissolves  his  heart  in  pity, " 
because  of  some  specific  injury  it  does  to  his  fellow-man  or  to 
a  sacred  cause.  And  when  he  is  asked  why  he  interests  him- 
self about  the  sorrows  and  wrongs  of  others,  hear  what  is  the 
reason  he  gives.  Not,  like  Young,  that  the  movements  of  the 
planets  show  a  mutual  dependence,  and  that 


or  that,' — 


"Thus  man  his  sovereign  duty  learns  in  this 
Material  picture  of  benevolence  "  ; — 


"More  generous  sorrow  while  it  sinks,  exalts, 
And  conscious  virtue  mitigates  the  pang." 


What  is  Cowper's  answer,  when  he  imagines  some  "sage  eru- 
dite, profound,"  asking  him  "  What's  the  world  to  you?  " — 

"  Much.     I  was  born  of  woman,  and  drew  milk 
As  sweet  as  charity  from  human  breasts. 
I  think,  articulate,  I  laugh  and  weep, 
And  exercise  all  functions  of  a  man. 
How  then  should  I  and  any  man  that  lives 
Be  strangers  to  each  other?" 

Young  is  astonished  that  men  can  make  war  on  each  other—- 
that any  one  can  "  seize  his  brother's  throat,"  while 

"The  Planets  cry,  'Forbear.'" 
Cowper  weeps  because — 

"There  is  no  flesh  in  man's  obdurate  heart  ; 
It  does  not  feel  for  man." 

Young  applauds  God  as  a  monarch  with  an  empire  and  a  court 


THE  POET  YOUNG.  63 

quite  superior  to  the  English,  or  as  an  author  who  produces 
"volumes  for  man's  perusal."  Cowper  sees  his  Father's  love 
in  all  the  gentle  pleasures  of  the  home  fireside,  in  the  charms 
even  of  the  wintry  landscape,  and  thinks — 

"  Happy  who  walks  with  Him  !  whom  what  he  finds 
Of  flavor  or  of  scent  in  fruit  or  flower, 
Or  what  he  views  of  beautiful  or  grand 
In  nature,  from  the  broad  majestic  oak 
To  the  green  blade  that  twinkles  in  the  sun, 
Prompts  with  remembrance  of  a  present  God." 

To  conclude — for  we  must  arrest  ourselves  in  a  contrast  that 
would  lead  us  beyond  our  bounds :  Young  flies  for  his  utmost 
consolation  to  the  day  of  judgment,  when 

"Final  Ruin  fiercely  drives 
Her  ploughshare  o'er  Creation"; 

when  earth,  stars,  and  suns  are  swept  aside — • 

"And  now,  all  dross  removed,  Heaven's  own  pure  day 
Full  on  the  confines  of  our  ether,  flames : 
While  (dreadful  contrast !)  far  (how  far  !)  beneath, 
Hell,  bursting,  belches  forth  her  blazing  seas, 
And  storms  sulphureous  ;  her  voracious  jaws 
Expanding  wide,  and  roaring  for  her  prey,"— 

Dr.  Young,  and  similar  "  ornaments  of  religion  and  virtue," 
passing,  of  course,  with  grateful  "applause"  into  the  upper 
region.  Cowper  finds  his  highest  inspiration  in  the  Millen- 
nium— in  the  restoration  of  this  our  beloved  home  of  earth  to 
perfect  holiness  and  bliss,  when  the  Supreme 

"Shall  visit  earth  in  mercy  ;  shall  descend 
Propitious  in  His  chariot  paved  with  love  ; 
And  what  His  storms  have  blasted  and  defaced 
For  man's  revolt,  shall  with  a  smile  repair." 

And  into  what  delicious  melody  his  song  flows  at  the  thought 
of  that  blessedness  to  be  enjoyed  by  future  generations  on 
earth! — 

"The  dwellers  in  the  vales  and  on  the  rocks 
Shout  to  each  other,  and  the  mountain-tops 
From  distant  mountains  catch  the  flying  joy  , 
Till,  nation  after  nation  taught  the  strain, 
Earth  rolls  the  rapturous  Hosanna  round  ! " 


64  WORLDLINESS  AND  OTHER- WORLDLINESS. 

The  sum  of  our  comparison  is  this :  In  Young  we  have  the 
type  of  that  deficient  human  sympathy,  that  impiety  toward 
the  present  and  the  visible,  which  flies  for  its  motives,  its 
sanctities,  and  its  religion,  to  the  remote,  the  vague,  and  the 
unknown ;  in  Cowper  we  have  the  type  of  that  genuine  love 
which  cherishes  things  in  proportion  to  their  nearness,  and 
feels  its  reverence  grow  in  proportion  to  the  intimacy  of  its 
knowledge. 


Portrait  of  Heine.— Page  55. 


Eliot's  Essays. 


GERMAN  WIT:  HEINRICH  HEINE. 

"NOTHING/'  says  Goethe,  "  is  more  significant  of  men's  char- 
acter than  what  they  find  laughable. "  The  truth  of  this  ob- 
servation would  perhaps  have  been  more  apparent  if  he  had 
said  culture  instead  of  character.  The  last  thing  in  which  the 
cultivated  man  can  have  community  with  the  vulgar  is  their 
jocularity ;  and  we  can  hardly  exhibit  more  strikingly  the  wide 
gulf  which  separates  him  from  them  than  by  comparing  the 
object  which  shakes  the  diaphragm  of  a  coal-heaver  with  the 
highly  complex  pleasure  derived  from  a  real  witticism.  That 
any  high  order  of  wit  is  exceedingly  complex,  and  demands  a 
ripe  and  strong  mental  development,  has  one  evidence  in  the 
fact  that  we  do  not  find  it  in  boys  at  all  in  proportion  to  their 
manifestation  of  other  powers.  Clever  boys  generally  aspire  to 
the  heroic  and  poetic  rather  than  the  comic,  and  the  crudest 
of  all  their  efforts  are  their  jokes.  Many  a  witty  man  will 
remember  how,  in  his  school-days,  a  practical  joke,  more  or 
less  Rabelaisian,  was  for  him  the  neplus  ultra  of  the  ludicrous. 
It  seems  to  have  been  the  same  with  the  boyhood  of  mankind. 
The  fun  of  early  races  was,  we  fancy,  of  the  after-dinner  kind 
— loud-throated  laughter  over  the  wine-cup,  taken  too  little 
account  of  in  sober  moments  to  enter  as  an  element  into  their 
Art,  and  differing  as  much  from  the  laughter  of  a  Chamfort  or 
a  Sheridan  as  the  gastronomic  enjoyment  of  an  ancient  Briton, 
whose  dinner  had  no  other  "  removes  "  than  from  acorns  to 
beechmast  and  back  again  to  acorns,  differed  from  the  subtle 
pleasures  of  the  palate  experienced  by  his  turtle-eating  de- 
scendant. It  was  their  lot  to  live  seriously  through  stages 
which  to  later  generations  were  to  become  comedy,  as  those 
amiable-looking  pre- Adamite  amphibia  which  Professor  Owen 
has  restored  for  us  in  effigy' at  Sydenharn  doubtless  took  seri- 
ously the  grotesque  physiognomies  of  their  kindred.  Heavy 


56  GERMAN  WIT: 

experience  in  their  case,  as  in  every  other,  was  the  base  from 
which  the  salt  of  future  wit  was  to  be  made. 

Humor  is  of  earlier  growth  than  Wit,  and  it  is  in  accordance 
with  this  earlier  growth  that  it  has  more  affinity  with  the 
poetic  tendencies,  while  Wit  is  more  nearly  allied  to  the 
ratiocinative  intellect.  Humor  draws  its  materials  from  situ- 
ations and  characteristics ;  Wit  seizes  on  unexpected  and  com- 
plex relations.  Humor  is  chiefly  representative  and  descrip- 
tive ;  it  is  diffuse,  and  flows  along  without  any  other  law  than 
its  own  fantastic  will;  or  it  flits  about  like  a  will-o'-the-wisp, 
amazing  us  by  its  whimsical  transitions.  Wit  is  brief  and 
sudden,  and  sharply  defined  as  a  crystal :  it  does  not  make 
pictures,  it  is  not  fantastic;  but  it  detects  an  unsuspected 
analogy,  or  suggests  a  startling  or  confounding  inference. 
Every  one  who  has  had  the  opportunity  of  making  the  com- 
parison will  remember  that  the  effect  produced  on  him  by- 
some  witticisms  is  closely  akin  to  the  effect  produced  on  him 
by  subtle  reasoning  which  lays  open  a  fallacy  or  absurdity ; 
and  there  are  persons  whose  delight  in  such  reasoning  always 
manifests  itself  in  laughter.  This  affinity  of  Wit  with  ratio- 
cination is  the  more  obvious  in  proportion  as  the  species  of  wit 
is  higher  and  deals  less  with  words  and  with  superficialities 
than  with  the  essential  qualities  of  things.  Some  of  John- 
son's most  admirable  witticisms  consist  in  the  suggestion  of 
an  analogy  which  immediately  exposes  the  absurdity  of  an 
action  or  proposition ;  and  it  is  only  their  ingenuity,  conden- 
sation, and  instantaneousness  which  lift  them  from  reasoning 
into  Wit — they  are  reasoning  raised  to  a  higher  power.  On 
the  other  hand,  Humor,  in  its  higher  forms,  and  in  proportion 
as  it  associates  itself  with  the  sympathetic  emotions,  continu- 
ally passes  into  poetry :  nearly  all  great  modern  humorists 
may  be  called  prose  poets. 

Some  confusion  as  to  the  nature  of  humor  has  been  created 
by  the  fact,  that  those  who  have  written  most  eloquently  on  it 
have  dwelt  almost  exclusively  on  its  higher  forms,  and  have 
defined  humor  in  general  as  the  sympathetic  presentation  of 
incongruous  elements  in  human  nature  and  life — a  definition 
which  only  applies  to  its  later  development.  A  great  deal  of 
humor  may  coexist  with  a  great  deal  of  barbarism,  as  we  see 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  57 

in  the  middle  ages ;  but  the  strongest  flavor  of  the  humor  in 
auch  cases  will  come,  not  from  sympathy,  but  more  probably 
from  triumphant  egoism  or  intolerance ;  at  best  it  will  be  the 
love  of  the  ludicrous  exhibiting  itself  in  illustrations  of  suc- 
cessful cunning  and  of  the  lex  talionis,  as  in  "  Reineke  Fuchs," 
or  shaking  off  in  a  holiday  mood  the  yoke  of  a  too  exacting 
faith,  as  in  the  old  Mysteries.  Again,  it  is  impossible  to  deny 
a  high  degree  of  humor  to  many  practical  jokes,  but  no  sym- 
pathetic nature  can  enjoy  them.  Strange  as  the  genealogy 
may  seem,  the  original  parentage  of  that  wonderful  and  deli- 
cious mixture  of  fun,  fancy,  philosophy,  and  feeling  which 
constitutes  modern  humor,  was  probably  the  cruel  mockery  of 
a  savage  at  the  writhings  of  a  suffering  enemy- — such  is  the 
tendency  of  things  toward  the  better  and  more  beautiful! 
Probably  the  reason  why  high  culture  demands  more  complete 
harmony  with  its  moral  sympathies  in  humor  than  in  wit,  is 
that  humor  is  in  its  nature  more  prolix — that  it  has  not  the 
direct  and  irresistible  force  of  wit.  Wit  is  an  electric  shock, 
which  takes  us  by  violence  quite  independently  of  our  pre- 
dominant mental  disposition;  but  humor  approaches  us  more 
deliberately  and  leaves  us  masters  of  ourselves.  Hence  it  is 
that,  while  coarse  and  cruel  humor  has  almost  disappeared 
from  contemporary  literature,  coarse  and  cruel  wit  abounds. 
Even  refined  men  cannot  help  laughing  at  a  coarse  bon-mot  or 
a  lacerating  personality,  if  the  "  shock  "  of  the  witticism  is  a 
powerful  one ;  while  mere  fun  will  have  no  power  over  them 
if  it  jar  on  their  moral  taste.  Hence,  too,  it  is  that,  while 
wit  is  perennial,  humor  is  liable  to  become  superannuated. 

As  is  usual  with  definitions  and  classifications,  however, 
this  distinction  between  wit  and  humor  does  not  exactly  rep- 
resent the  actual  fact.  Like  all  other  species,  Wit  and  Humor 
overlap  and  blend  with  each  other.  There  are  Ion-mots,  like 
many  of  Charles  Lamb's,  which  are  a  sort  of  facetious  hybrids, 
we  hardly  know  whether  to  call  them  witty  or  humorous ;  there 
are  rather  lengthy  descriptions  or  narratives  which,  like  Vol- 
taire's "  Micromegas, "  would  be  humorous  if  they  were-not  so 
sparkling  and  antithetic,  so  pregnant  with  suggestion  and 
satire,  that  we  are  obliged  to  call  them  witty.  We  rarely 
find  wit  un tempered  by  humor,  or  humor  without  a  spice  of 


58  GERMAN  WIT: 

wit;  and  sometimes  we  find  them  both  united  in  the  highest 
degree  in  the  same  mind,  as  in  Shakespeare  and  Moliere.  A 
happy  conjunction  this,  for  wit  is  apt  to  be  cold,  and  thin- 
lipped,  and  Mephistophelean  in  men  who  have  no  relish  for 
humor,  whose  lungs  do  never  crow  like  Chanticleer  at  fun  and 
drollery ;  and  broad-faced  rollicking  humor  needs  the  refining 
.influence  of  wit.  Indeed  it  may  be  said  that  there  is  no  really 
.fine  writing  in  which  wit  has  not  an  implicit,  if  not  an  ex- 
plicit action.  The  wit  may  never  rise  to  the  surface,  it  may 
never  flame  out  into  a  witticism;  but  it  helps  to  give  bright- 
ness and  transparency,  it  warns  off  from  flights  and  exaggera- 
tions which  verge  on  the  ridiculous — in  every  genre  of  writing 
it  preserves  a  man  from  sinking  into  the  genre  ennuyeux. 
And  it  is  eminently  needed  for  this  office  in  humorous  writing ; 
for,  as  humor  has  no  limits  imposed  on  it  by  its  material,  no 
law  but  its  own  exuberance,  it  is  apt  to  become  preposterous 
and  wearisome  unless  checked  by  wit,  which  is  the  enemy  of 
all  monotony,  of  all  lengthiness,  of  all  exaggeration. 

Perhaps  the  nearest  approach  Nature  has  given  us  to  a  com- 
plete analysis,  in  which  wit  is  as  thoroughly  exhausted  of 
humor  as  possible,  and  humor  as  bare  as  possible  of  wit,  is  in 
the  typical  Frenchman  and  the  typical  German.  Voltaire, 
the  intensest  example  of  pure  wit,  fails  in  most  of  his  fictions 
from  his  lack  of  humor.  "  Micromegas  "  is  a  perfect  tale,  be- 
cause, as  it  deals  chiefly  with  philosophic  ideas  and  does  not 
touch  the  marrow  of  human  feeling  and  life,  the  writer's  wit 
and  wisdom  were  all-sufficient  for  his  purpose.  Not  so  with 
"  Candide."  Here  Voltaire  had  to  give  pictures  of  life  as  well 
as  to  convey  philosophic  truth  and  satire,  and  here  we  feel  the 
want  of  humor.  The  sense  of  the  ludicrous  is  continually 
defeated  by  disgust,  and  the  scenes,  instead  of  presenting  us 
with  an  amusing  or  agreeable  picture,  are  only  the  frame  for 
a  witticism.  On  the  other  hand,  German  humor  generally 
shows  no  sense  of  measure,  no  instinctive  tact;  it  is  either 
floundering  and  clumsy  as  the  antics  of  a  leviathan,  or  labori- 
ous an.d  interminable  as  a  Lapland  day,  in  which  one  loses  all 
hope  that  the  stars  and  quiet  will  ever  come.  For  this  reason 
Jean  Paul,  the  greatest  of  German  humorists,  is  unendurable 
to  many  readers,  and  frequently  tiresome  to  all.  Here,  as 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  o» 

elsewhere,  the  German  shows  the  absence  of  that  delicate  per- 
ception, that  sensibility  to  gradation,  which  is  the  essence  of 
tact  and  taste  and  the  necessary  concomitant  of  wit.  All  his 
subtlety  is  reserved  for  the  region  of  metaphysics.  For 
Identitat,  in  the  abstract,  no  one  can  have  an  acuter  vision ; 
but  in  the  concrete  he  is  satisfied  with  a  very  loose  approxima- 
tion. He  has  the  finest  nose  for  Empirismus  in  philosophical 
doctrine,  but  the  presence  of  more  or  less  tobacco-smoke  in  the 
air  he  breathes  is  imperceptible  to  him.  To  the  typical  Ger- 
man—  Vetter  Michel — it  is  indifferent  whether  his  door-lock 
will  catch ;  whether  his  teacup  be  more  or  less  than  an  inch 
thick ;  whether  or  not  his  book  have  every  other  leaf  unstitched ; 
whether  his  neighbor's  conversation  be  more  or  less  of  a  shout; 
whether  he  pronounces  b  or  p,  t  or  d  ;  whether  or  not  his  adored 
one's  teeth  be  few  and  far  between.  He  has  the  same  sort  of 
insensibility  to  gradations  in  time.  A  German  comedy  is  like 
a  German  sentence :  you  see  no  reason  in  its  structure  why  it 
should  ever  come  to  an  end,  and  you  accept  the  conclusion  as 
an  arrangement  of  Providence  rather  than  of  the  author.  We 
have  heard  Germans  use  the  word  Langeweile,  the  equivalent 
for  ennui,  and  we  have  secretly  wondered  what  it  can  be  that 
produces  ennui  in  a  German.  Not  the  longest  of  long  trage- 
dies, for  we  have  known  him  to  pronounce  that  hochst  fesselnd; 
not  the  heaviest  of  heavy  books,  for  he  delights  in  that  as 
griindlich;  not  the  slowest  of  journeys  in  a  Post-wag  en,  for 
the  slower  the  horses  the  more  cigars  he  can  smoke  before  he 
reaches  his  journey's  end.  German  ennui  must  be  something 
as  superlative  as  Barclay's  treble  X,  which,  we  suppose,  im- 
plies an  extremely  unknown  quantity  of  stupefaction. 

It  is  easy  to  see  that  this  national  deficiency  in  nicety  of 
perception  must  have  its  effect  on  the  national  appreciation 
and  exhibition  of  Humor.  You  find  in  Germany  ardent  ad- 
mirers of  Shakespeare,  who  tell  you  that  what  they  think  most 
admirable  in  him  is  his  Wortspiel,  his  verbal  quibbles ;  and  it 
is  a  remarkable  fact  that,  among  the  five  great  races  concerned 
in  modern  civilization,  the  German  race  is  the  only  one  which, 
up  to  the  present  century,  had  contributed  nothing  classic  to 
the  common  stock  of  European  wit  and  humor ;  unless  "  Reineke 
Fuchs  "  can  be  fairly  claimed  as  a  peculiarly  Teutonic  product. 


60  GERMAN  WIT- 

Italy  was  the  birthplace  of  Pantomime  and  the  immortal  Pul- 
cinello;  Spain  had  produced  Cervantes ;  France  had  produced 
Rabelais  and  Moliere,  and  classic  wits  innumerable;  England 
had  yielded  Shakespeare  and  a  host  of  humorists.  But  Ger- 
many had  borne  no  great  comic  dramatist,  no  great  satirist, 
and  she  has  not  yet  repaired  the  omission ;  she  had  not  even 
produced  any  humorist  of  a  high  order.  Among  her  great 
writers,  Lessing  is  the  one  who  is  the  most  specifically  witty. 
We  feel  the  implicit  influence  of  wit — the  "  flavor  of  mind  " 
— throughout  his  writings;  and  it  is  often  concentrated  into 
pungent  satire,  as  every  reader  of  the  "  Hamburgische  Drama- 
turgic" remembers.  Still,  Lessing's  name  has  not  become 
European  through  his  wit,  and  his  charming  comedy,  "  Minna 
von  Barnhelm, "  has  won  no  place  on  a  foreign  stage.  Of 
course,  we  do  not  pretend  to  an  exhaustive  acquaintance  with 
German  literature;  we  not  only  admit — we  are  sure — that  it 
includes  much  comic  writing  of  which  we  know  nothing.  We 
simply  state  the  fact,  that  no  German  production  of  that  kind, 
before  the  present  century,  ranked  as  European — a  fact  which 
does  not,  indeed,  determine  the  amount  of  the  national  face- 
tiousness,  but  which  is  quite  decisive  as  to  its  quality.  What- 
ever may  be  the  stock  of  fun  which  Germany  yields  for  home 
consumption,  she  has  provided  little  for  the  palate  of  other 
lands.  All  honor  to  her  for  the  still  greater  things  she  has 
done  for  us !  She  has  fought  the  hardest  fight  for  freedom  of 
thought,  has  produced  the  grandest  inventions,  has  made  mag- 
nificent contributions  to  science,  has  given  us  some  of  the 
divinest  poetry,  and  quite  the  divinest  music,  in  the  world. 
We  revere  and  treasure  the  products  of  the  German  mind. 
To  say  that  that  mind  is  not  fertile  in  wit,  is  only  like  saying 
that  excellent  wheat-land  is  not  rich  pasture ;  to  say  that  we 
do  not  enjoy  German  facetiousness,  is  no  more  than  to  say, 
that  though  the  horse  is  the  finest  of  quadrupeds,  we  do  not 
like  him  to  lay  his  hoof  playfully  on  our  ^shoulder.  Still,  as 
we  have  noticed  that  the  pointless  puns  and  stupid  jocularity 
of  the  boy  may  ultimately  be  developed  into  the  epigrammatic 
brilliancy  and  polished  playfulness  of  the  man ;  as  we  believe 
that  racy  wit  and  chastened  delicate  humor  are  inevitably  the 
results  of  invigorated  and  refined  mental  activity, — we  can  also 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  61 

believe  that  Germany  will  one  day  yield  a  crop  of  wits  and 
humorists. 

Perhaps  there  is  already  an  earnest  of  that  future  crop  in 
the  existence  of  Heinrich  Heine,  a  German  born  with  the 
present  century,  who,  to  Teutonic  imagination,  sensibility, 
and  humor,  adds  an  amount  of  esprit  that  would  make  him 
brilliant  among  the  most  brilliant  of  Frenchmen.  True,  this 
unique  German  wit  is  half  a  Hebrew ;  but  he  and  his  ancestors 
spent  their  youth  in  German  air,  and  were  reared  on  Wurst 
and  Sauerkraut,  so  that  he  is  as  much  a  German  as  a  pheasant 
is  an  English  bird,  or  a  potato  an  Irish  vegetable.  But  what- 
ever else  he  may  be,  Heine  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  men 
of  this  age ;  no  echo,  but  a  real  voice,  and  therefore,  like  all 
genuine  things  in  this  world,  worth  studying;  a  surpassing 
lyric  poet,  who  has  uttered  our  feelings  for  us  in  delicious 
song;  a  humorist,  who  touches  leaden  folly  with  the  magic 
wand  of  his  fancy,  and  transmutes  it  into  the  fine  gold  of  art 
— who  sheds  his  sunny  smile  on  human  tears,  and  makes  them 
a  beauteous  rainbow  on  the  cloudy  background  of  life;  a  wit, 
who  holds  in  his  mighty  hand  the  most  scorching  lightnings 
of  satire ;  an  artist  in  prose  literature,  who  has  shown  even 
more  completely  than  Goethe  the  possibilities  of  German  prose; 
and — in  spite  of  all  charges  against  him,  true  as  well  as  false 
— a  lover  of  freedom,  who  has  spoken  wise  and  brave  words 
on  behalf  of  his  fellow-men.  He  is,  moreover,  a  suffering 
man,  who,  with  all  the  highly  wrought  sensibility  of  genius, 
has  to  endure  terrible  physical  ills ;  and-  as  such  he  calls  forth 
more  than  an  intellectual  interest.  It  is  true,  alas !  that  there 
is  a  heavy  weight  in  the  other  scale — that  Heine's  magnificent 
powers  have  often  served  only  to  give  electric  force  to  the  ex- 
pression of  debased  feeling,  so  that  his  works  are  no  Phidian 
statue  of  gold,  and  ivory,  and  gems,  but  have  not  a  little  brass, 
and  iron,  and  miry  clay  mingled  with  the  precious  metal.  The 
audacity  of  his  occasional  coarseness  and  personality  is  unpar- 
alleled in  contemporary  literature,  and  has  hardly  been  ex- 
ceeded by  the  license  of  former  days.  Hence,  before  his  vol- 
umes are  put  within  the  reach  of  immature  minds,  there  is 
need  of  a  friendly  penknife  to  exercise  a  strict  censorship. 
Yet,  when  all  coarseness,  all  scurrility,  all  Mephistophelean 


62  GERMAN  WIT: 

contempt  for  the  reverent  feelings  of  other  men,  is  removed, 
there  will  be  a  plenteous  remainder  of  exquisite  poetry,  of 
wit,^  humor,  and  just  thought.  It  is  apparently  too  often  a 
congenial  task  to  write  severe  words  about  the  transgressions 
committed  by  men  of  genius,  especially  when  the  censor  has 
the  advantage  of  being  himself  a  man  of  no  genius,  so  that 
those  transgressions  seem  to  him  quite  gratuitous;  he,  for- 
sooth, never  lacerated  any  one  by  his  wit,  or  gave  irresistible 
piquancy  to  a  coarse  allusion,  and  his  indignation  is  not  miti- 
gated by  any  knowledge  of  the  temptation  that  lies  in  tran- 
scendent power.  We  are  also  apt  to  measure  what  a  gifted 
man  has  done  by  our  arbitrary  conception  of  what  he  might 
have  done,  rather  than  by  a  comparison  of  his  actual  doings 
with  our  own  or  those  of  other  ordinary  men.  We  make  our- 
selves over-zealous  agents  of  heaven,  and  demand  that  our 
brother  should  bring  usurious  interest  for  his  five  Talents,  for- 
getting that  it  is  less  easy  to  manage  five  Talents  than  two. 
Whatever  benefit  there  may  be  in  denouncing  the  evil,  it  is 
after  all  more  edifying,  and  certainly  more  cheering,  to  appre- 
ciate the  good.  Hence,  in  endeavoring  to  give  our  readers 
some  account  of  Heine  and,  his  works,  we  shall  not  dwell 
lengthily  on  his  failings ;  we  shall  not  hold  the  candle  up  to 
dusty,  vermin-haunted  corners,  but  let  the  light  fall  as  much 
as  possible  on  the  nobler  and  more  attractive  details.  Our 
sketch  of  Heine's  life,,  which  has  been  drawn  from  various 
sources,  will  be  free  from  everything  like  intrusive  gossip, 
and  will  derive  its  coloring  chiefly  from  the  autobiographical 
hints  and  descriptions  scattered  through  his  own  writings. 
Those  of  our  readers  who  happen  to  know  nothing  of  Heine, 
will  in  this  way  be  making  their  acquaintance  with  the  writer 
while  they  are  learning  the  outline  of  his  career. 

We  have  said  that  Heine  was  born  with  the  present  cen- 
tury ;  but  this  statement  is  not  precise,  for  we  learn  that,  ac- 
cording to  his  certificate  of  baptism,  he  was  born  December 
12,  1799.  However,  as  he  himself  says,  the  important  point 
is,  that  he  was  born,  and  born  on  the  banks  of  the  Rhine,  at 
Dilsseldorf,  where  his  father  was  a  merchant.  In  his  "  Reise-? 
bilder  "  he  gives  us  some  recollections,  in  his  wild  poetic  way, 
of  the  dear  old  town  where  he  spent  his  childhood,  and  of  hia 


ETEINRICH  HEUTE  63 

schoolboy  troubles  there.  We  shall  quote  from  these  in  but- 
terfly fashion,  sipping  a  little  nectar  here  and  there,  without 
regard  to  any  strict  order : — 

"  I  first  saw  the  light  on  the  banks  of  that  lovely  stream,  where  Folly 
grows  on  the  green  hills,  and  in  autumn  is  plucked,  pressed,  poured  into 
casks,  and  sent  into  foreign  lands.  Believe  me,  I  yesterday  heard  some 
one  utter  folly  which,  in  anno  1811,  lay  in  a  bunch  of  grapes  I  then  saw 
growing  on  the  Johannisberg.  .  .  .  Mon  Dieu !  if  I  had  only  such  faith 
in  me  that  I  could  remove  mountains,  the  Johannisberg  would  be  the 
very  mountain  I  should  send  for  wherever  I  might  be  ;  but  as  my  faith 
is  not  so  strong,  imagination  must  help  me,  and  it  transports  me  at  once 
to  the  lovely  Rhine.  ...  1  am  again  a  child,  and  playing  with  other 
children  on  the  Schlossplatz,  at  Dusseldorf  on  the  Rhine.  Yes,  madam, 
there  was  I  born  ;  and  I  note  this  expressly,  in  case,  after  my  death, 
se\en  cities — Schilda,  Krahwinkel,  Polkwitz,  Bockurn,  Diilken,  Gottin- 
gen,  andSchbppenstadt — should  contend  for  the  honor  of  being  my  birth- 
place. Dusseldorf  is  a  town  on  the  Rhine;  sixteen  thousand  men  live 
there,  and  many  hundred  thousand  men  besides  he  buried  there.  .  .  . 
Among  them,  many  of  whom  my  mother  says,  that  it  would  be  better  if 
they  were  still  living;  for  example,  my  grandfather  and  my  uncle,  the 
old  Herr  Von  Geldern  and  the  young  Herr  Von  Geldern,  both  such  cele- 
brated doctors,  who  saved  so  many  men  from  death,  and  yet  must  die 
themselves,  And  the  pious  Ursula,  who  carried  me  in  her  arms  when  I 
was  a  child,  also  lies  buried  there,  and  a  rose-bush  grows  on  her  grave  ; 
she  loved  the  scent  of  roses  so  well  in  life,  and  her  heart  was  pure  rose- 
incense  and  goodness.  The  knowing  old  Canon,  too,  lies  buried  there. 
Heavens,  what  an  object  he  looked  when  I  last  saw  him  !  He  was  made 
up  of  nothing  but  mind  and  plasters,  and  nevertheless  studied  day  and 
night,  as  if  he  were  alarmed  lest  the  worms  should  find  an  idea  too  little 
in  his  head.  And  the  little  William  lies  there,  and  for  this  I  am  to 
blame.  We  were  schoolfellows  in  the  Franciscan  monastery,  and  were 
playing  on  that  side  of  it  where  the  Dussel  flows  between  stone  walls, 
and  I  said — '  William,  fetch  out  the  kitten  that  has  just  fallen  in1 — and 
merrily  he  went  down  on  to  the  plank  which  lay  across  the  brook, 
snatched  the  kitten  out  of  the  water,  but  fell  in  himself,  and  was  dragged 
out  dripping  and  dead.  The  kitten  lived  to  a  good  old  age.  .  .  .  Princes 
in  that  day  were  not  the  tormented  race  they  are  now  ;  the  crown  grew 
firmly  on  their  heads,  and  at  night  they  drew  a  nightcap  over  it,  and 
slept  peacefully,  and  peacefully  slept  the  people  at  their  feet ;  and  when 
the  people  waked  in  the  morning,  they  said  '  Good-morning,  father !  ' — 
and  the  princes  answered,  '  Good-morning,  dear  children  ! '  But  it  was 
suddenly  quite  otherwise  ;  for  when  we  awoke  one  morning  at  Diisselr 
dorf,  and  were  ready  to  say.  '  Good-morning,  father  ! ' — lo  !  the  father 
was  gone  away ;  and  in  the  whole  town  there  was  nothing  but  dumb 
sorrow,  everywhere  a  sort  of  funeral  disposition ;  and  people  glided 
along  silently  to  the  market,  and  read  the  long  placard  placed  on  the. 


64  GERMAN  WIT: 

door  of  the  Town  Hall.  It  was  dismal  weather ;  yet  the  lean  tailor, 
Kilian,  stood  in  his  nankeen  jacket  which  he  usually  wore  only  in  the 
house,  and  his  blue  worsted  stockings  hung  down  so  that  his  naked  legs 
peeped  out  mournfully,  and  his  thin  lips  trembled  while  he  muttered  the 
announcement  to  himself.  And  an  old  soldier  read  rather  louder,  ana 
at  many  a  word  a  crystal  tear  trickled  down  to  his  brave  old  mustache. 
I  stood  near  him  and  wept  in  company,  and  asked  him,  '  Why  we  wept?  ' 
He  answered,  '  The  Elector  has  abdicated. '  And  then  he  read  again, 
and  at  the  words,  'for  the  long-manifested  fidelity  of  my  subjects,1  and 
'  hereby  set  you  free  from  your  allegiance, '  he  wept  more  than  ever.  It 
is  strangely  touching  to  see  an  old  man  like  that,  with  faded  uniform 
and  scarred  face,  weep  so  bitterly  all  of  a  sudden.  While  we  were  read- 
ing, the  Electoral  arms  were  taken  down  from  the  Town  Hall ;  every- 
thing had  such  a  desolate  air,  that  it  was  as  if  an  eclipse  of  the  sun  were 
expected.  ...  I  went  home  and  wept,  and  wailed  out,  '  The  Elector 
has  abdicated  !  '  In  vain  my  mother  took  a  world  of  trouble  to  explain 
the  thing  to  me.  I  knew  what  I  knew  ;  I  was  not  to  be  persuaded,  but 
went  crying  to  bed,  and  in  the  night  dreamed  that  the  world  was  at  an 
end." 

The  next  morning,  however,  the  sun  rises  as  usual,  and 
Joachim  Murat  is  proclaimed  Grand  Duke,  whereupon  there 
is  a  holiday  at  the  public  school,  and  Heinrich  (or  Harry,  for 
that  was  his  baptismal  name,  which  he  afterward  had  the 
good  taste  to  change),  perched  on  the  bronze  horse  of  the 
Electoral  statue,  sees  quite  a  different  scene  from  yesterday's : — • 

"The  next  day  the  world  was  again  all  in  order,  and  we  had  school  as 
before,  and  things  were  got  by  heart  as  before — the  Roman  emperors, 
chronology,  the  nouns  in  im,  the  verba  irregularia,  Greek,  Hebrew, 
geography,  mental  arithmetic! — heavens!  my  head  is  still  dizzy  with 
it, — all  must  be  learned  by  heart !  And  a  great  deal  of  this  came  in 
very  conveniently  for  me  in  after  life.  For  if  I  had  not  known  the 
Roman  kings  by  heart,  it  would  subsequently  have  been  quite  indiffer- 
ent to  me  whether  Niebuhr  had  proved  or  had  not  proved  that  they  never 
really  existed.  .  .  .  But  oh  !  the  trouble  I  had  at  school  with  the  end- 
less dates.  And  with  arithmetic  it  was  still  worse.  What  I  understood 
best  was  subtraction,  for  that  has  a  very  practical  rule :  'Four  can't  be 
taken  from  three,  therefore  I  must  borrow  one. '  But  I  advise  every  one 
in  such  a  case  to  borrow  a  few  extra  pence,  for  no  one  can  tell  what  may 
happen.  ...  As  for  Latin,  you  have  no  idea,  madam,  what  a  com- 
plicated affair  it  is.  The  Romans  would  never  have  found  time  to 
conquer  the  world  if  they  had  first  had  to  learn  Latin.  Luckily  for 
them,  they  already  knew  in  their  cradles  what  nouns  have  their  accusa- 
tive in  im.  I,  on  the  contrary,  had  to  learn  them  by  heart  in  the  sweat 
of  my  brow  ;  nevertheless,  it  is  fortunate  for  me  that  I  know  them  ;  .  .  . 
and  the  fact  that  I  have  them  at  my  iiuger-euds  if  J  should  ever  happen 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  65 

to  want  them  suddenly,  affords  me  much  inward  repose  and  consolation 
in  many  troubled  hours  of  life.  ...  Of  Greek  I  will  not  say  a  word  ,  I 
should  get  too  much  irritated.  The  monks  in  the  middle  ages  were  not 
so  far  wrong  when  they  maintained  that  Greek  was  an  invention  of  the 
devil.  God  knows  the  suffering  I  endured  over  it.  ...  With  Hebrew 
it  went  somewhat  better,  for  I  had  always  a  great  liking  for  the  Jews, 
though  to  this  very  hour  they  crucify  my  good  name  ;  but  I  could  never 
get  on  so  far  in  Hebrew  as  my  watch,  which  had  much  familiar  inter- 
course with  pawnbrokers,  and  in  this  way  contracted  many  Jewish  habits 
— for  example,  it  wouldn't  go  on  Saturdays." 

Heine's  parents  were  apparently  not  wealthy,  but  his  edu- 
cation was  cared  for  by  his  uncle,  Solomon  Heine,  a  great 
banker  in  Hamburg,  so  that  he  had  no  early  pecuniary  disad- 
vantages to  struggle  with.  He  seems  to  have  been  very  happy 
in  his  mother,  who  was  not  of  Hebrew,  but  of  Teutonic  blood ; 
he  often  mentions  her  with  reverence  and  affection,  and  in  the 
"  Buch  der  Lieder  "  there  are  two  exquisite  sonnets  addressed 
to  her,  which  tell  how  his  proud  spirit  was  always  subdued  by 
the  charm  of  her  presence,  and  how  her  love  was  the  home  of 
his  heart  after  restless  weary  wandering : — 

"Wie  machtig  auch  mein  stolzer  Muth  sich  blahe, 
In  deiner  selig  siissen,  trauten  Nahe 
Ergreift  mich  oft  ein  demuthvolle  Zagen. 

Und  immer  irrte  ich  nach  Liebe,  immer 
Nach  Liebe,  doch  die  Liebe  fand  ich  nimmer, 
Und  kehrte  um  nach  Hause,  krank  und  triibe. 
Doch  da  bist  du  entgegen  mir  gekommen, 
Und  ach  !  was  da  in  deinem  Aug'  geschwommen, 
Das  war  die  siisse,  langgesuchte  Liebe." 

He  was  at  first  destined  for  a  mercantile  life,  but  Nature 
declared  too  strongly  against  this  plan.  "God  knows,"  he 
has  lately  said  in  conversation  with  his  brother,  "I  would 
willingly  have  become  a  banker,  but  I  could  never  bring  my- 
self to  that  pass.  I  very  early  discerned  that  bankers  would 
one  day  be  the  rulers  of  the  world."  So  commerce  was  at 
length  given  up  for  law,  the  study  of  which  he  began  in  1819 
at  the  University  of  Bonn.  He  had  already  published  some 
poems  in  the  corner  of  a  newspaper,  and  among  them  was  one 
6 


66  GERMAN  WIT: 

on  Napoleon,  the  object  of  his  youthful  enthusiasm.  This 
poem,  he  says  in  a  letter  to  St.  Rene  Taillandier,  was  written, 
when  he  was  only  sixteen.  It  is  still  to  be  found  in  the 
"  Buch  der  Lieder  "  under  the  title  "  Die  Grenadiere, "  and  it 
proves  that  even  in  its  earliest  efforts  his  genius  showed  a 
strongly  specific  character. 

It  will  be  easily  imagined  that  the  germs  of  poetry  sprouted 
too  vigorously  in  Heine's  brain  for  jurisprudence  to  find  much 
room  there.  Lectures  on  history  and  literature,  we  are  told, 
were  more  diligently  attended  than  lectures  on  law.  He  had 
.taken  care,  too,  to  furnish  his  trunk  with  abundant  editions 
of  the  poets,  and  the  poet  he  especially  studied  at  that  time 
was  Byron.  At  a  later  period  we  find  his  taste  taking  another 
direction,  for  he  writes :  "  Of  all  authors,  Byron  is  precisely 
the  one  who  excites  in  me  the  most  intolerable  emotion; 
whereas  Scott,  in  every  one  of  his  works,  gladdens  my  heart, 
soothes  and  invigorates  me."  Another  indication  of  his  bent 
in  these  Bonn  days  was  a  newspaper  essay,  in  which  he  at- 
tacked the  Romantic  school ;  and  here  also  he  went  through 
that  chicken-pox  of  authorship — the  production  of  a  tragedy. 
Heine's  tragedy — "Almansor" — is,  as  might  be  expected, 
better  than  the  majority  of  these  youthful  mistakes.  The 
tragic  collision  lies  in  the  conflict  between  natural  affection 
and  the  deadly  hatred  of  religion  and  of  race — in  the  sacrifice 
of  youthful  lovers  to  the  strife  between  Moor  and  Spaniard, 
Moslem  and  Christian.  Some  of  the  situations  are  striking, 
and  there  are  passages  of  considerable  poetic  merit ;  but  the 
characters  are  little  more  than  shadowy  vehicles  for  the  poe- 
try, and  there  is  a  want  of  clearness  and  probability  in  the 
structure.  It  was  published  two  years  later,  in  company  with 
another  tragedy,  in  one  act,  called  "William  Ratcliffe,"  in 
which  there  is  rather  a  feeble  use  of  the  Scotch  second-sight 
after  the  manner  of  the  Fate  in  the  Greek  tragedy.  We  smile 
to  find  Heine  saying  of  his  tragedies,  in  a  letter  to  a  friend 
soon  after  their  publication :  "  I  know  they  will  be  terribly 
cut  up,  but  I  will  confess  to  you  in  confidence  that  they  are 
very  good, — better  than  my  collection  of  poems,  which  are  not 
worth  a  shot. "  Elsewhere  he  tells  us,  that  when,  after  one  of 
Paganini's  concerts,  he  was  passionately  complimenting  the 


HEINRICH  HEIKE.  67 

great  master  on  his  violin-playing,  Paganini  interrupted  him 
thus ;  "  But  how  were  you  pleased  with  my  bows  ?  " 

In  1820,  Heine  left  Bonn  for  Gottingen.  He  there  pursued 
his  omission  of  law  studies ;  and  at  the  end  of  three  months 
he  was  rusticated  for  a  breach  of  the  laws  against  duelling. 
While  there,  he  had  attempted  a  negotiation  with  Brockhaus 
for  the  printing  of  a  volume  of  poems,  and  had  endured  that 
first  ordeal  of  lovers  and  poets — a  refusal.  It  was  not  until  a 
year  after,  that  he  found  a  Berlin  publisher  for  his  first  vol- 
ume of  poems,  subsequently  transformed,  with  additions,  into 
the  "  Buch  der  Lieder."  He  remained  between  two  and  three 
years  at  Berlin,  and  the  society  he  found  there  seems  to  have 
made  these  years  an  important  epoch  in  his  culture.  He  was 
one  of  the  youngest  members  of  a  circle  which  assembled  at 
the  house  of  the  poetess  Elise  von  Hohenhausen,  the  translator 
of  Byron — a  circle  which  included  Chaniisso,  Varnhagen,  and 
Eahel  (Varnhagen' s  wife) .  For  Rahel,  Heine  had  a  profound 
admiration  and  regard.  He  afterward  dedicated  to  her  the 
poems  included  under  the  title  "Heimkehr";  and  he  fre- 
quently refers  to  her  or  quotes  her  in  a  way  that  indicates  how 
he  valued  her  influence.  According  to  his  friend,  F.  von  Ho- 
henhausen, the  opinions  concerning  Heine's  talent  were  very 
various  among  his  Berlin  friends,  and  it  was  only  a  small 
minority  that  had  any  presentiment  of  his  future  fame.  In 
this  minority  was  Elise  von  Hohenhausen,  who  proclaimed 
Heine  as  the  Byron  of  Germany ;  but  her  opinion  was  met 
with  much  head-shaking  and  opposition.  We  can  imagine 
how  precious  was  such  a  recognition  as  hers  to  the  young  poet, 
then  only  two  or  three  and  twenty,  and  with  by  no  means  an 
impressive  personality  for  superficial  eyes.  Perhaps  even  the 
deep-sighted  were  far  from  detecting  in  that  small,  blond, 
pale  young  man,  with  quiet,  gentle  manners,  the  latent  pow- 
ers of  ridicule  and  sarcasm — the  terrible  talons  that  were  one 
day  to  be  thrust  out  from  the  velvet  paw  of  the  young  leopard. 

It  was  apparently  during  this  residence  in  Berlin  that  Heine 
united  himself  with  the  Lutheran  Church.  He  would  will- 
ingly, like  many  of  his  friends,  he  tells  us,  have  remained 
free  from  all  ecclesiastical  ties  if  the  authorities  there  had  not 
forbidden  residence  in  Prussia,  and  especially  in  Berlin,  to 


68  GERMAN  WIT: 

every  one  who  did  not  belong  to  one  of  the  positive  religions 
recognized  by  the  State : — 

"As  Henry  IV.  once  laughingly  said, ' Paris  vaut  bien  une  messe, '  so  I 
might  with  reason  say,  ' Berlin  vaut  bien  unepreche  '  ,•  and  I  could  after- 
ward, as  before,  accommodate  myself  to  the  very  enlightened  Chris- 
tianity, filtrated  from  all  superstition,  which  could  then  be  had  in  the 
churches  of  Berlin,  and  which  was  even  free  from  the  divinity  of  Christ, 
like  turtle-soup  without  turtle." 

At  the  same  period,  too,  Heine  became  acquainted  with 
Hegel.  In  his  lately  published  "  Gestandnisse "  (Confes- 
sions), he  throws  on  Hegel's  influence  over  him  the  blue  light 
of  demoniacal  wit,  and  confounds  us  by  the  most  bewildering, 
double-edged  sarcasms;  but  that  influence  seems  to  have  been 
at  least  more  wholesome  than  the  one  which  produced  the 
mocking  retractations  of  the  "  Gestandnisse. "  Through  all  his 
self-satire,  we  discern  that  in  those  days  he  had  something 
like  real  earnestness  and  enthusiasm,  which  are  certainly  not 
apparent  in  his  present  theistic  confession  of  faith : — 

"On  the  whole,  I  never  felt  a  strong  enthusiasm  for  this  philosophy, 
and  conviction  on  the  subject  was  out  of  the  question.  I  never  was  an 
abstract  thinker,  and  I  accepted  the  synthesis  of  the  Hegelian  doctrine 
without  demanding  any  proof,  since  its  consequences  flattered  my  vanity. 
I  was  young  and  proud,  and  it  pleased  my  vainglory  when  I  learned 
from  Hegel  that  the  true  God  was  not,  as  my  grandmother  believed,  the 
God  who  lives  in  heaven,  but  myself  here  upon  earth.  This  foolish 
pride  had  not  in  the  least  a  pernicious  influence  on  my  feelings  ,  on  the 
contrary,  it  heightened  these  to  the  pitch  of  heroism.  I  was  at  that  time 
so  lavish  in  generosity  and  self-sacrifice,  that  I  must  assuredly  have 
eclipsed  the  most  brilliant  deeds  of  those  good  bourgeois  of  virtue  who 
acted  merely  from  a  sense  of  duty,  and  simply  oBeyed  the  laws  of 
morality." 

His  sketch  of  Hegel  is  irresistibly  amusing ;  but  we  must 
warn  the  reader  that  Heine's  anecdotes  are  often  mere  devices 
of  style  by  'which  he  conveys  his  satire  or  opinions.  The 
reader  will  see  that  he  does  not  neglect  an  opportunity  of 
giving  a  sarcastic  lash  or  two,  in  passing,  to  Meyerbeer,  for 
whose  music  he  has  a  great  contempt.  The  sarcasm  conveyed 
in  the  substitution  of  reputation  for  music  and  journalists  for 
musicians  might  perhaps  escape  any  one  unfamiliar  with  the 
sly  and  unexpected  turns  of  Heine's  ridicule:  — 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  69 

"To  speak  frankly,  I  seldom  understood  him,  and  only  "arrived  at  the 
meaning  of  his  words  by  subsequent  reflect!  on.  I  believe  he  wished  not 
to  be  understood  ;  and  hence  his  practice  of  sprinkling  his  discourse 
•with  modifying  parentheses  ;  hence,  perhaps,  his  preference  for  persons 
of  whom  he  knew  that  they  did  not  understand  him,  and  to  whom  he 
all  the  more  willingly  granted  the  honor  of  his  familiar  acquaintance. 
Thus  every  one  in  Berlin  wondered  at  the  intimate  companionship  of 
the  profound  Hegel  with  the  late  Heinrich  Beer,  a  brother  of  Giacomo 
Meyerbeer,  who  is  universally  known  by  his  reputation,  and  who  has 
been  celebrated  by  the  cleverest  journalists.  This  Beer,  namely  Hein- 
rich,*was  a  thoroughly  stupid  fellow,  and  indeed  was  afterward  actually 
declared  imbecile  by  his  family,  and  placed  under  guardianship,  because 
instead  of  making  a  name  for  himself  in  art  or  in  science  by  means  of 
his  great  fortune,  he  squandered  his  money  on  childish  trifles ;  and,  for 
example,  one  day  bought  six  thousand  thalers'  worth  of  walking-sticks- 
This  poor  man,  who  had  no  wish  to  pass  either  for  a  great  tragic  drama- 
tist, or  for  a  great  star-gazer,  or  for  a  laurel-crowned  musical  genius,  a 
rival  of  Mozart  and  Rossini,  and  preferred  giving  his  money  for  walking- 
sticks — this  degenerate  Beer  enjoyed  Hegel's  most  confidential  society  ; 
he  was  the  philosopher's  bosom  friend,  his  Pylades,  and  accompanied 
him  everywhere  like  his  shadow.  The  equally  witty  and  gifted  Felix 
Mendelssohn  once  sought  to  explain  thi s  phenomenon  by  maintaining 
that  Hegel  did  not  understand  Heinrich  Beer.  I  now  believe,  however, 
that  the  real  ground  of  that  intimacy  consisted  in  this — Hegel  was  con- 
vinced that  no  word  of  what  he  said  was  understood  by  Heinrich  Beer ; 
and  he  could  therefore,  in  his  presence,  give  himself  up  to  all  the  intel- 
lectual outpourings  of  the  moment.  In  general,  Hegel's  conversation 
was  a  sort  of  monologue,  sighed  forth  by  starts  in  a  noiseless  voice  :  the 
odd  roughness  of  his  expressions  often  struck  me,  and  many  of  them 
have  remained  in  my  memory.  One  beautiful  starlight  evening  we 
stood  together  at  the  window,  and  I,  a  young  man  of  one-and-twenty, 
having  just  had  a  good  dinner  and  finished  my  coffee,  spoke  with  en- 
thusiasm of  the  stars,  and  called  them  the  habitations  of  the  departed. 
But  the  master  muttered  to  himself, '  The  stars  !  hum  !  hum  !  The  stars 
are  only  a  brilliant  leprosy  on  the  face  of  the  heavens. '  'For  God's 
sake,'  I  cried,  'is  there,  then,  no  happy  place  above,  where  virtue  is  re- 
warded after  death?  '  But  he,  staring  at  me  with  his  pale  eyes,  said, 
cuttingly,  '  So  you  want  a  bonus  for  having  taken  care  of  your  sick 
mother,  and  refrained  from  poisoning  your  worthy  brother?  '  At  these 
words  he  looked  anxiously  round,  but  appeared  immediately  set  at  rest 
when  he  observed  that  it  was  only  Heinrich  Beer,  who  had  approached 
to  invite  him  to  a  game  of  whist." 

In  1823,  Heine  returned  to  Gottingen  to  complete  his  career 
as  a  law-student,  and  this  time  he  gave  evidence  of  advanced 
mental  maturity,  not  only  by  producing  many  of  the  charming 
poems  subsequently  included  in  the  "  Keisebilder, "  but  also  by 


70  GERMAN  WIT: 

prosecuting  his  professional  studies  diligently  enough  to  leave 
Gottingen  in  1.825  as  Doctor  juris.  Hereupon  he  settled  at 
Hamburg  as  an  advocate,  but  his  profession  seems  to  have 
been  the  least  pressing  of  his  occupations.  In  those  days,  a 
small  blond  young  man,  with  the  brim  of  his  hat  drawn  over 
his  nose,  his  coat  flying  open,  and  his  hands  stuck  in  his  trou- 
ser-pockets,  might  be  seen  stumbling  along  the  streets  of  Ham- 
burg, staring  from  side  to  side,  and  appearing  to  have  small 
regard  to  the  figure  he  made  in  the  eyes  of  the  good  citizens. 
Occasionally  an  inhabitant,  more  literary  than  usual,  would 
point  out  this  young  man  to  his  companion  as  Heinrich  Heine  ; 
but  in  general,  the  young  poet  had  not  to  endure  the  incon- 
veniences of  being  a  lion.  His  poems  were  devoured,  but  he 
was  not  asked  to  devour  flattery  in  return.  Whether  because 
the  fair  Hamburgers  acted  in  the  spirit  of  Johnson's  advice 
to  Hannah  More — to  "  consider  what  her  flattery  was  worth 
before  she  choked  him  with  it " — or  for  some  other  reason, 
Heine,  according  to  the  testimony  of  August  Lewald,  to  whom 
we  owe  these  particulars  of  his  Hamburg  life,  was  left  free 
from  the  persecution  of  tea-parties.  Not,  however,  from  an- 
other persecution  of  genius — nervous  headaches,  which  some 
persons,  we  are  told,  regarded  as  an  improbable  fiction,  in- 
tended as  a  pretext  for  raising  a  delicate  white  hand  to  his 
forehead.  It  is  probable  that  the  sceptical  persons  alluded  to 
were  themselves  untroubled  with  nervous  headache,  and  that 
their  hands  were  not  delicate.  Slight  details  these,  but  worth 
telling  about  a  man  of  genius,  because  they  help  us  to  keep  in 
mind  that  he  is,  after  all,  our  brother,  having  to  endure  the 
petty  every-day  ills  of  life  as  we  have;  with  this  difference, 
that  his  heightened  sensibility  converts  what  are  mere  insect- 
stings  for  us  into  scorpion-stings  for  him. 

It  was  perhaps  in  these  Hamburg  days  that  Heine  paid  the 
visit  to  Goethe,  of  which  he  gives  us  this  charming  little  pic- 
ture : — 

"  When  I  visited  him  in  Weimar,  and  stood  before  him,  I  involuntarily 
glanced  at  his  side  to  see  whether  the  eagle  was  not  there  with  the  light- 
ning in  his  beak.  I  was  nearly  speaking  Greek  to  him ;  but,  as  I  ob- 
served that  he  understood  German,  I  stated  to  him,  in  German,  that  the 
plums  on  the  road  between  Jeua  and  Weimar  were  very  good,  I  had  for 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  fl 

So  many  long  winter  nights  thought  over  what  lofty  and  profound  things 
I  would  say  to  Goethe,  if  ever  I  saw  him.  And  when  I  saw  him  at  last, 
I  said  to  him,  that  the  Saxon  plums  were  very  good  I  And  Goethe 
smiled." 

During  the  next  few  years,  Heine  produced  the  most  popu- 
lar of  all  his  works — those  which  have  won  him  his  place  as 
the  greatest  of  living  German  poets  and  humorists.  Between 
1826  and  1829  appeared  the  four  volumes  of  the  "  Keisebilder  " 
(Pictures  of  Travel),  and  the  "  Buch  der  Lieder "  (Book  of 
Songs) — a  volume  of  lyrics,  of  which  it  is  hard  to  say  whether 
their  greatest  charm  is  the  lightness  and  finish  of  their  style, 
their  vivid  and  original  imaginativeness,  or  their  simple,  pure 
sensibility.  In  his  "  Reisebilder, "  Heine  carries  us  with  him 
to  the  Harz,  to  the  isle  of  Norderney,  to  his  native  town  Dus- 
seldorf,  to  Italy,  and  to  England,  sketching  scenery  and  char- 
acter, now  with  the  wildest,  most  fantastic  humor,  now  with 
the  finest  idyllic  sensibility, — letting  his  thoughts  wander  from 
poetry  to  politics,  from  criticism  to  dreamy  revery,  and  blend- 
ing fun,  imagination,  reflection,  and  satire  in  a  sort  of  exquis- 
ite, ever-varying  shimmer,  like  the  hues  of  the  opal. 

Heine's  journey  to  England  did  not  at  all  heighten  his  re- 
gard for  the  English.  He  calls  our  language  the  "hiss  of 
egoism  "  (Zischlaute  des  Egoismus) ;  and  his  ridicule  of  English 
awkwardness  is  as  merciless  as — English  ridicule  of  German 
awkwardness.  His  antipathy  toward  us  seems  to  have  grown 
in  intensity,  like  many  of  his  other  antipathies;  and  in  his 
"  Vermischte  Schriften  "  he  is  more  bitter  than  ever.  Let  us 
quote  one  of  his  philippics ;  since  bitters  are  understood  to  be 
wholesome : — 

"It  is  certainly  a  frightful  injustice  to  pronounce  sentence  of  con- 
demnation on  an  entire  people.  But  with  regard  to  the  English,  mo- 
mentary disgust  might  betray  me  into  this  injustice  ;  and  on  looking  at 
the  mass,  I  easily  forget  the  many  brave  and  noble  men  who  distin- 
guished themselves  by  intellect  and  love  of  freedom.  But  these,  espe- 
cially the  British  poets,  were  always  all  the  more  glaringly  in  contrast 
with  the  rest  of  the  nation  ;  they  were  isolated  martyrs  to  their  national 
relations;  and  besides,  great  geniuses  do  not  belong  to  the  particular 
land  of  their  birth  :  they  scarcely  belong  to  this  earth,  the  Golgotha  of 
their  sufferings.  The  mass — the  English  blockheads,  God  forgive  me  ! 
— are  hateful  to  me  in  my  inmost  soul ;  and  I  often  regard  them  not  at 
all  as  my  fellow-men,  but  as  miserable  automata — machines,  whose 


7  GERMAN  WIT: 

motive-power  is  egoism.  In  these  moods,  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  heard 
the  whizzing  wheel-work  by  which  they  think,  feel,  reckon,  digest,  and 
pray  ;  their  praying,  their  mechanical  Anglican  cluirch-going,  with  the 
gilt  Prayer-book  under  their  arms,  their  stupid,  tiresome  Sunday,  their 
awkward  piety,  is  most  of  all  odious  to  me.  I  am  firmly  convinced  that 
a  blaspheming  Frenchman  is  a  more  pleasing  sight  for  the  Divinity  than 
a  praying  Englishman." 

On  his  return  from  England,  Heine  was  employed  at  Munich 
in  editing  the  Allgemeinen  Politischen  Annalen ;  but  in  1830 
he  was  again  in  the  north,  and  the  news  of  the  July  Revolu- 
tion surprised  him  on  the  island  of  Heligoland.  He  has  given 
us  a  graphic  picture  of  his  democratic  enthusiasm  in  those 
days  in  some  letters,  apparently  written  from  Heligoland, 
which  he  has  inserted  in  his  book  on  Borne.  We  quote  some 
passages,  not  only  for  their  biographic  interest  as  showing  a 
phase  of  Heine's  mental  history,  but  because  they  are  a  speci- 
men of  his  power  in  that  kind  of  dithyrambic  writing  which, 
in  less  masterly  hands,  easily  becomes  ridiculous : — 

"The  thick  packet  of  newspapers  arrived  from  the  Continent  with 
these  warm,  glowing-hot  tidings.  They  were  sunbeams  wrapped  up  in 
packing-paper,  and  they  inflamed  my  soul  till  it  burst  into  the  wildest 
conflagration.  ...  It  is  all  like  a  dream  to  me ;  especially  the  name 
Lafayette  sounds  to  me  like  a  legend  out  of  my  earliest  childhood.  Does 
he  really  sit  again  on  horseback,  commanding  the  National  Guard?  I 
almost  fear  it  may  not  be  true,  for  it  is  in  print.  I  will  myself  go  to 
Paris,  to  be  convinced  of  it  with  my  bodily  eyes.  ...  It  must  be  splen- 
did, when  he  rides  through  the  streets,  the  citizen  of  two  worlds,  the 
god-like  old  man,  with  his  silver  locks  streaming  down  his  sacred 
shoulder.  .  .  .  He  greets,  with  his  dear  old  eyes,  the  grandchildren  of 
those  who  once  fought  with  him  for  freedom  and  equality.  .  «  .  It  is 
now  sixty  years  since  he  returned  from  America  with  the  Declaration 
of  Human  Rights — the  decalogue  of  the  world's  new  creed,  which  was 
revealed  to  him  amid  the  thunders  and  lightnings  of  cannon.  .  .  .  And 
the  tricolored  flag  waves  again  on  the  towers  of  Paris,  and  its  streets 
resound  with  the  Marseillaise!  ...  It  is  all  over  with  my  yearning 
for  repose.  I  know  now  again  what  I  will  do,  what  I  ought  to  do,  what 
I  must  do.  ...  I  am  the  son  of  the  Revolution,  and  seize  again  the 
hallowed  weapons  on  which  my  mother  pronounced  her  magic  benedic- 
tion. .  .  .  Flowers!  flowers!  I  will  crown  my  head  for  the  death-fight. 
And  the  lyre  too — reach  me  the  lyre,  that  I  may  sing  a  battle-song.  .  .  . 
Words  like  flaming  stars,  that  shoot  down  from  the  heavens,  and  burn 
up  the  palaces,  and  illuminate  the  huts.  .  .  .  Words  like  bright  javelins, 
that  whirr  up  to  the  seventh  heaven  and  strike  the  pious  hypocrites  who 
have  skulked  into  the  Holy  of  Holies.  ...  I  am  all  joy  and  song,  all 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  73 

sword  and  flame !  Perhaps,  too,  all  delirium.  .  .  .  One  of  those  sun- 
beams wrapped  in  brown  paper  has  flown  to  my  brain,  and  set  my 
thoughts  aglow.  In  vain  I  dip  my  head  into  the  sea.  No  water  extin- 
guishes this  Greek  fire.  .  .  .  Even  the  poor  Heligolanders  shout  for 
joy,  although  they  have  only  a  sort  of  dim  instinct  of  what  has  occurred. 
The  fisherman  who  yesterday  took  me  over  to  the  little  sand  island, 
which  is  the  bathing-place  here,  said  to  me,  smilingly, '  The  poor  people 
have  won  !  '  Yes  ;  instinctively  the  people  comprehend  such  events — 
perhaps  better  than  we,  with  all  our  means  of  knowledge.  Thus  Frau 
von  Varnhagen  once  told  me  that  when  the  issue  of  the  battle  of  Leipzig 
was  not  yet  known,  the  maid-servant  suddenly  rushed  into  the  room, 
with  the  sorrowful  cry, '  The  nobles  have  won  ! '  .  .  .  This  morning  an- 
other packet  of  newspapers  is  come.  I  devour  them  like  manna.  Child 
that  I  am,  affecting  details  touch  me  yet  more  than  the  momentous  whole. 
Oh,  if  I  could  but  see  the  dog  Medor  !  .  .  .  The  dog  Medor  brought  his 
master  his  gun  and  cartridge-box,  and  when  his  master  fell,  and  was 
buried  with  his  fellow-heroes  in  the  Court  of  the  Louvre,  there  stayed 
the  poor  dog,  like  a  monument  of  faithfulness,  sitting  motionless  on  the 
grave,  day  and  night,  eating  but  little  of  the  food  that  was  offered  him 
— burying  the  greater  part  of  it  in  the  earth,  perhaps  as  nourishment  for 
his  buried  master !  " 

The  enthusiasm  which  was  kept  thus  at  boiling-heat  by  im- 
agination, cooled  down  rapidly  when  brought  into  contact  with 
reality.  In  the  same  book  he  indicates,  in  his  caustic  way, 
the  commencement  of  that  change  in  his  political  temperature 
— for  it  cannot  be  called  a  change  in  opinion — which  has  drawn 
down  on  him  immense  vituperation  from  some  of  the  patriotic 
party,  but  which  seems  to  have  resulted  simply  from  the  essen- 
tial antagonism  between  keen  wit  and  fanaticism : — 

"On  the  very  first  days  of  my  arrival  in  Paris,  I  observed  that  things 
wore,  in  reality,  quite  different  colors  from  those  which  had  been  shed 
on  them,  when  in  perspective,  by  the  light  of  my  enthusiasm.  The 
silver  locks  which  I  saw  fluttering  so  majestically  on  the  shoulders  of 
Lafayette,  the  hero  of  two  worlds,  were  metamorphosed  into  a  brown 
perruque,  which  made  a  pitiable  covering  for  a  narrow  skull.  And  even 
the  dog  Medor,  which  I  visited  in  the  Court  of  the  Louvre,  and  which, 
encamped  under  tricolored  flags  and  trophies,  very  quietly  allowed  him- 
self to  be  fed — he  was  not  at  all  the  right  dog,  but  quite  an  ordinary 
brute,  who  assumed  to  himself  merits  not  his  own,  as  often  happens 
with  the  French  ;  and,  like  many  others,  he  made  a  profit  out  of  the 
glory  of  the  Revolution.  „  „  .  He  was  pampered  and  patronized,  perhaps 
promoted  to  the  highest  posts,  while  the  true  Medor,  some  days  after  the 
battle,  modestly  slunk  out  of  sight,  like  the  true  people  who  created  the 
Revolution." 


74  GERMAN  WIT: 

That  it  was  not  merely  interest  in  French  politics  which 
sent  Heine  to  Paris  in  1831,  but  also  a  perception  that  German 
air  was  not  friendly  to  sympathizers  in  July  revolutions,  is 
humorously  intimated  in  the  "  Gestandnisse  " : — 

"I  had  done  much  and  suffered  much,  and  when  the  sun  of  the  July 
Revolution  arose  in  France,  I  had  become  very  weary,  and  needed  some 
recreation.  Also,  my  native  air  was  every  day  more  unhealthy  for  me, 
and  it  was  time  I  should  seriously  think  of  a  change  of  climate.  I  had 
visions  •  the  clouds  terrified  me,  and  made  all  sorts  of  ugly  faces  at  me. 
It  often  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  sun  were  a  Prussian  cockade  ;  at  night  I 
dreamed  of  a  hideous  black  eagle,  which  gnawed  my  liver ;  and  I  was 
very  melancholy.  Add  to  this,  I  had  become  acquainted  with  an  old 
Berlin  Justizrath,  who  had  spent  many  years  in  the  fortress  of  Spandau, 
and  he  related  to  me  how  unpleasant  it  is  when  one  is  obliged  to  wear 
irons  in  winter.  For  myself  I  thought  it  very  unchristian  that  the 
irons  were  not  warmed  a  trifle.  If  the  irons  were  warmed  a  little  for  us 
they  would  not  make  so  unpleasant  an  impression,  and  even  chilly  natures 
might  then  bear  them  very  well ;  it  would  be  only  proper  consideration, 
too,  if  the  fetters  were  perfumed  with  essence  of  roses  and  laurels,  as  is 
the  case  in  this  country  (France).  I  asked  my  Justizrath  whether  he 
often  got  oysters  to  eat  at  Spandau?  He  said,  No  ;  Spandau  was  too  far 
from  the  sea.  Moreover,  he  said  meat  was  very  scarce  there,  and  there 
•was  no  kind  of  volatile  except  flies,  which  fell  into  one's  soup.  .  .  . 
Now,  as  I  really  needed  some  recreation,  and  as  Spandau  is  too  far  from 
the  sea  for  oysters  to  be  got  there,  and  the  Spandau  fly-soup  did  not  seem 
very  appetizing  to  me  ;  as,  besides  all  this,  the  Prussian  chains  are  very 
cold  in  winter,  and  could  not  be  conducive  to  my  health,  I  resolved  to 
visit  Paris." 

Since  this  time  Paris  has  been  Heine's  home,  and  his  best 
prose  works  have  been  written  either  to  inform  the  Germans 
on  French  affairs  or  to  inform  the  French  on  German  philoso- 
phy and  literature.  He  became  a  correspondent  of  the  "  All- 
gemeine  Zeitung,"  and  his  correspondence,  which  extends, 
with  an  interruption  of  several  years,  from  1831  to  1844, 
forms  the  volume  entitled  "  Franzosische  Zustande  "  (French 
Affairs),  and  the  second  and  third  volumes  of  his  "  Vermischte 
Schriften."  It  is  a  witty  and  often  wise  commentary  on  pub- 
lic men  and  public  events:  Louis  Philippe,  Casiniir  Perier, 
Thiers,  Guizot,  Rothschild,  the  Catholic  party,  the  Socialist 
party,  have  their  turn  of  satire  and  appreciation,  for  Heine 
deals  out  both  with  an  impartiality  which  made  his  less  favor- 
able critics — Borne,  for  example — charge  him  with  the  rather 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  75 

incompatible  sins  of  reckless  caprice  and  venality.  Literature 
and  art  alternate  with  politics:  we  have  now  a  sketch  of 
George  Sand,  or  a  description  of  one  of  Horace  Vernet's  pic- 
tures,— now  a  criticism  of  Victor  Hugo,  or  of  Liszt, — now  an 
irresistible  caricature  of  Spontini,  or  Kalkbrenner, — and  occa- 
sionally the  predominant  satire  is  relieved  by  a  fine  saying  or 
a  genial  word  of  admiration.  And  all  is  done  with  that  airy 
lightness,  yet  precision  of  touch,  which  distinguishes  Heine 
beyond  any  living  writer.  The  charge  of  venality  was  loudly 
made  against  Heine  in  Germany :  first,  it  was  said  that  he 
was  paid  to  write;  then,  that  he  was  paid  to  abstain  from, 
writing;  and  the  accusations  were  supposed  to  have  an  irref- 
ragable basis  in  the  fact  that  he  accepted  a  stipend  from  the 
French  Government.  He  has  never  attempted  to  conceal  the 
reception  of  that  stipend,  and  we  think  his  statement  (in  the 
"  Vermischte  Schriften  ")  of  the  circumstances  under  which  it 
was  offered  and  received  is  a  sufficient  vindication  of  himself 
and  M.  Guizot  from  any  dishonor  in  the  matter. 

It  may  be  readily  imagined  that  Heine,  with  so  large  a 
share  of  the  Gallic  element  as  he  has  in  his  composition,  was 
soon  at  his  ease  in  Parisian  society,  and  the  years  here  were 
bright  with  intellectual  activity  and  social  enjoyment.  "  His 
wit, "  .wrote  August  Lewald,  "  is  a  perpetual  gushing  fountain ; 
he  throws  off  the  most  delicious  descriptions  with  amazing 
facility,  and  sketches  the  most  comic  characters  in  conver- 
sation." Such  a  man  could  not  be  neglected  in  Paris,  and 
Heine  was  sought  on  all  sides — as  a  guest  in  distinguished 
salons,  as  a  possible  proselyte  in  the  circle  of  the  Saint  Simo- 
nians.  His  literary  productiveness  seems  to  have  been  fur- 
thered by  this  congenial  life,  which,  however,  was  soon  to  some 
extent  imbittered  by  the  sense  of  exile;  for  since  1835  both 
his  works  and  his  person  have  been  the  object  of  denunciation 
by  the  German  Governments.  Between  1833  and  1845  ap- 
peared the  four  volumes  of  the  "Salon,"  "Die  Eomantische 
Schule  "  (both  written,  in  the  first  instance,  in  French) ;  the 
book  on  Borne;  "Atta  Troll,"  a  romantic  poem;  "Deutsch- 
land, "  an  exquisitely  humorous  poem,  describing  his  last  visit 
to  Germany,  and  containing  some  grand  passages  of  serious 
Writing }  and  the  "  Neue  Gedichte, "  a  collection  of  lyrical  poems, 


76  GERMAN  WIT: 

Among  the  most  interesting  of  his  prose  works  are  the  second 
volume  of  the  "  Salon, "  which  contains  a  survey  of  religion 
and  philosophy  in  Germany,  and  the  "  Romantische  Schule," 
a  delightful  introduction  to  that  phase  of  German  literature 
known  as  the  Romantic  School.  The  book  on  Borne,  which 
appeared  in  1840,  two  or  three  years  after  the  death  of  that 
writer,  excited  great  indignation  in  Germany,  as  a  wreaking 
of  vengeance  on  the  dead,  an  insult  to  the  memory  of  a  man 
who  had  worked  and  suffered  in  the  cause  of  freedom — a  cause 
which  was  Heine's  own.  Borne,  we  may  observe  parentheti- 
cally, for  the  information  of  those  who  are  not  familiar  with 
recent  German  literature,  was  a  remarkable  political  writer  of 
the  ultra-liberal  party  in  Germany,  who  resided  in  Paris  at 
the  same  time  as  Heine, — a  man  of  stern  uncompromising  par- 
tisanship, and  bitter  hamor.  Without  justifying  Heine's  pro- 
duction of  this  book,  we  see  excuses  for  him  which  should 
temper  the  condemnation  passed  on  it.  There  was  a  radical 
opposition  of  nature  between  him  and  Borne :  to  use  his  own 
distinction,  Heine  is  a  Hellene — sensuous,  realistic,  exquisitely 
alive  to  tha  beautiful ;  while  Borne  was  a  Nazarene — ascetic, 
spiritualistic,  despising  the  pure  artist  as  destitute  of  earnest- 
ness. Heine  has  too  keen  a  perception  of  practical  absurdities 
and  damaging  exaggerations  ever  to  become  a  thoroughgoing 
partisan ;  and  with  a  love  of  freedom,  a  faith  in  the  ultimate 
triumph  of  democratic  principles,  of  which  we  see  no  just 
reason  to  doubt  the  genuineness  and  consistency,  he  has  been 
unable  to  satisfy  more  zealous  and  one-sided  Liberals  by  giv- 
ing his  adhesion  to  their  views  and  measures,  or  by  adopt- 
ing a  denunciatory  tone  against  those  in  the  opposite  ranks. 
Borne  could  not  forgive  what  he  regarded  as  Heine' s  epicurean 
indifference  and  artistic  dalliance,  and  he  at  length  gave  vent 
to  his  antipathy  in  savage  attacks  on  him  through  the  press, 
accusing  him  of  utterly  lacking  character  and  principle,  and 
even  of  writing  under  the  influence  of  venal  motives.  To 
these  attacks  Heine  remained  absolutely  mute — -from  con- 
tempt, according  to  his  own  account;  but  the  retort,  which  he 
resolutely  refrained  from  making  during  Borne's  life,  comes 
in  this  volume  published  after  his  death  with  the  concentrat- 
ed force  of  long-gathering  thunder.  The  utterly  inexcusable 


HEItfRICH  HEIKE.  77 

part  of  the  book  is  the  caricature  of  Borne's  friend,  Madame 
Wohl,  and  the  scurrilous  insinuations  concerning  Borne's  do- 
mestic life.  It  is  said,  we  know  not  with  how  much  truth, 
that  Heine  had  to  answer  for  these  in  a  duel  with  Madame 
Wohl's  husband,  and  that,  after  receiving  a  serious  wound, 
he  promised  to  withdraw  the  offensive  matter  from  a  future 
edition.  That  edition,  however,  has  not  been  called  for. 
Whatever  else  we  may  think  of  the  book,  it  is  impossible  to 
deny  its  transcendent  talent — the  dramatic  vigor  with  which 
Borne  is  made  present  to  us,  the  critical  acumen  with  which 
he  is  characterized,  and  the  wonderful  play  of  wit,  pathos, 
and  thought  which  runs  through  the  whole.  But  we  will  let 
Heine  speak  for  himself,  and  first  we  will  give  part  of  his 
graphic  description  of  the  way  in  which  Borne's  mind  and 
manners  grated  on  his  taste  :— 

"To  the  disgust  which,  in  intercourse  with  Borne,  I  was  in  danger  of 
feeling  toward  those  who  surrounded  him,  was  added  the  annoyance  I 
felt  from  his  perpetual  talk  about  politics.  Nothing  but  political  argu- 
ment, and  again  political  argument,  even  at  table,  where  he  managed  to 
hunt  me  out.  At  dinner,  when  I  so  gladly  forget  all  the  vexations  of 
the  world,  he  spoiled  the  best  dishes  for  me  by  his  patriotic  gall,  which 
he  poured  as  a  bitter  sauce  over  everything.  Calf's  feet,  ft  la  maltre 
d'hotel,  then  my  innocent  bonne  bouche,  he  completely  spoiled  for  me  by 
Job's  tidings  from  Germany,  which  he  scraped  together  out  of  the  most 
unreliable  newspapers.  And  then  his  accursed  remarks,  which  spoiled 
'  one's  appetite  !  .  .  .  This  was  a  sort  of  table-talk  which  did  not  greatly 
exhilarate  me,  and  I  avenged  myself  by  affecting  an  excessive,  almost 
impassioned  indifference  for  the  objects  of  Borne's  enthusiasm.  For 
example,  Borne  was  indignant  that  immediately  on  my  arrival  in  Paris, 
I  had  nothing  better  to  do  than  to  write  for  German  papers  a  long  account 
of  the  Exhibition  of  Pictures.  I  omit  all  discussion  as  to  whether  that 
interest  in  Art  which  induced  me  to  undertake  this  work  was  so  utterly 
irreconcilable  with  the  revolutionary  interests  of  the  day ;  but  Borne 
saw  in  it  a  proof  of  my  indifference  toward  the  sacred  cause  of  human- 
ity, and  I  could  in  my  turn  spoil  the  taste  of  his  patriotic  Sauerkraut 
for  him  by  talking  all  dinner-time  of  nothing  but  pictures,  of  Robert's 
Reapers,  Horace  Vernet's  Judith,  and  Scheffer's  Faust.  .  .  .  That  I 
never  thought  it  worthwhile  to  discuss  my  political  principles  with  him 
it  is  needless  to  say  ;  and  once  when  he  declared  that  he  had  found  a 
contradiction  in  my  writings,  I  satisfied  myself  with  the  ironical  an- 
swer, 'You  are  mistaken,  mon  cher;  such  contradictions  never  occur  in 
my  works,  for  always  before  I  begin  to  write  I  read  over  the  statement 
of  my  political  principles  in  my  previous  writings,  that  I  may  not  con- 


?8  GERMAN  WIT: 

tradict  myself,  and  that  no  one  maybe  able  to  reproach  me  withapostasj 
from  my  liberal  principles. '  " 

And  here  is  his  own  account  of  the  spirit  in  which  the  book 
was  written: — 

"I  was  never  Borne 's  friend,  nor -was  I  ever  his  enemy.  The  dis- 
pleasure which  he  could.often  excite  in  me  was  never  very  important, 
and  he  atoned  for  it  sufficiently  by  the  cold  silence  which  I  opposed  to 
all  his  accusations  and  raillery.  While  he  lived  I  wrote  not  a  line 
against  him,  I  never  thought  about  him,  I  ignored  him  completely  ;  and 
that  enraged  him  beyond  measure.  If  I  now  speak  of  him,  I  do  so 
neither  out  of  enthusiasm  nor  out  of  uneasiness  ;  I  am  conscious  of  the 
coolest  impartiality.  I  write  here  neither  an  apology  nor  a  critique, 
and  as  in  painting  the  man  I  go  on  my  own  observation,  the  image  I 
present  of  him  ought  perhaps  to  be  regarded  as  a  real  portrait'.  And 
such  a  monument  is  due  to  him — to  the  great  wrestler  who,  in  the  arena 
of  our  political  games,  wrestled  so  courageously,  and  earned,  if  not  the 
laurel,  certainly  the  crown  of  oak  leaves.  I  give  an  image  with  his  true 
features,  without  idealization — the  more  like  him  the  more  honorable 
for  his  memory.  He  was  neither  a  genius  nor  a  hero;  he  was  np 
Olympian  god.  He  was  a  man,  a  denizen  of  this  earth  ,  he  was  a  good 
writer  and  a  great  patriot.  .  .  .  Beautiful  delicious  peace,  which  I  feel 
at  this  moment  in  the  depths  of  my  soul !  thou  rewardest  me  sufficiently 
for  everything  I  have  done  and  for  everything  I  have  despised.  ...  I 
shall  defend  myself  neither  from  the  reproach  of  indifference  nor  from 
the  suspicion  of  venality.  I  have  for  years,  during  the  life  of  the  in- 
sinuator,  held  such  self-justification  unworthy  of  me  ;  now  even  decency 
demands  silence.  That  would  be  a  frightful  spectacle ! — polemics  be- 
tween Death  and  Exile  !  Dost  thou  stretch  out  to  me  a  beseeching  hand 
from  the  grave?  Without  rancor  I  reach  mine  toward  thee.  .  .  .  See 
how  noble  it  is  and  pure  !  It  was  never  soiled  by  pressing  the  hands  of 
the  mob,  any  more  than  by  the  impure  gold  of  the  people's  enemy.  In 
reality  thou  hast  never  injured  me.  ...  In  all  thy  insinuations  there 
is  not  a  Zowis-tTor's  worth  of  truth." 

In  one  of  these  years  Heine  was  married,  and,  in  deference 
to  the  sentiments  of  his  wife,  married  according  to  the  rites 
of  the  Catholic  Church.  On  this  fact  busy  rumor  afterward 
founded  the  story  of  his  conversion  to  Catholicism,  and  could 
of  course  name  the  day  and  the  spot  on  which  he  abjured 
Protestantism.  In  his  "  Gestandnisse  "  Heine  publishes  a  de- 
nial of  this  rumor ;  less,  he  says,  for  the  sake  of  depriving  the 
Catholics  of  the  solace  they  may  derive  from  their  belief  in  a 
new  convert,  than  in  order  to  cut  off  from  another  party  the 
more  spiteful  satisfaction  of  bewailing  his  instability : — 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  79 

"That  statement  of  time  and  place  was  entirely  correct.  I  was  actu- 
a'ly  on  the  specified  day  in  the  specified  church,  which  was,  moreover, 
a  Jesuit  church — namely,  St.  Sulpice  ;  and  I  then  went  through  a  relig- 
ious act.  But  this  act  was  no  odious  abjuration,  but  a  very  innocent 
conjugation  ;  that  is  to  say,  my  marriage,  already  performed  according 
to  the  civil  law,  there  received  the  ecclesiastical  consecration,  because 
my  wife,  whose  family  are  stanch  Catholics,  would  not  have  thought 
her  marriage  sacred  enough  without  such  a  ceremony.  And  I  would  on 
no  account  cause  this  beloved  being  any  uneasiness  or  disturbance  in 
her  religious  views." 

For  sixteen  years — from  1831  to  1847 — Heine  lived  that 
rapid  concentrated  life  which  is  known  only  in  Paris;  but 
then,  alas!  stole  on  the  "  days  of  darkness,"  and  they  were  to 
be  many.  In  1847  he  felt  the  approach  of  the  terrible  spinal 
disease  which  has  for  seven  years  chained  him  to  his  bed  in 
acute  suffering.  The  last  time  he  went  out  of  doors,  he  tells 
us,  was  in  May,  1848 ; 

"With  difficulty  I  dragged  myself  to  the  Louvre,  and  I  almost  sank 
down  as  I  entered  the  magnificent  hall  where  the  ever-blessed  goddess 
of  beauty,  our  beloved  Lady  of  Milo,  stands  on  her  pedestal.  At  her 
feet  I  lay  long,  and  wept  so  bitterly  that  a  stone  must  have  pitied  me. 
The  goddess  looked  compassionately  on  me,  but  at  the  same  time  dis- 
consolately, as  if  she  would  say :  Dost  thou  not  see,  then,  that  I  have  no 
arms,  and  thus  cannot  help  thee?  " 

Since  1848,  then,  this  poet,  whom  the  lovely  objects  of  Na- 
ture have  always  "haunted  like  a  passion,"  has  not  descended 
from  the  second  story  of  a  Parisian  house;  this  man  of  hungry 
intellect  has  been  shut  out  from  all  direct  observation  of  life, 
all  contact  with  society,  except  such  as  is  derived  from  visit- 
ors to  his  sick-room.  The  terrible  nervous  disease  has  affected 
his  eyes;  the  sight  of  one  is  utterly  gone,  and  he  can  only 
raise  the  lid  of  the  other  by  lifting  it  with  his  finger.  Opium 
alone  is  the  beneficent  genius  that  stills  his  pain.  We  hardly 
know  whether  to  call  it  an  alleviation  or  an  intensification  of 
the  torture  that  Heine  retains  his  mental  vigor,  his  poetic  im- 
agination, and  his  incisive  wit;  for  if  his  intellectual  activ- 
ity fills  up  a  blank,  it  widens  the  sphere  of  suffering.  His 
brother  described  him  in  1851  as  still,  in  moments  when  the 
hand  of  pain  was  not  too  heavy  on  him,  the  same  Heinrich 
Heine,  poet  and  satirist  by  turns.  In  such  moments,  he  would 


80  GERMAN  WIT 

narrate  the  strangest  things  in  the  gravest  manner.  But  when 
he  came  to  an  end,  he  would  roguishly  lift  up  the  lid  of  his 
right  eye  with  his  finger  to  see  the  impression  he  had  pro- 
duced ;  and  if  his  audience  had  been  listening  with  a  serious 
face,  he  would  break  into  Homeric  laughter.  We  have  other 
proof  than  personal  testimony  that  Heine's  disease  allows  his 
genius  to  retain  much  of  its  energy,  in  the  "  Romanzero, "  a 
volume  of  poems  published  in  1851,  and  written  chiefly  during 
the  first  three  years  of  his  illness ;  and  in  the  first  volume  of 
the  "  Vermischte  Schriften,"  also  the  product  of  recent  years. 
Very  plaintive  is  the  poet's  own  description  of  his  condition, 
in  the  epilogue  to  the  "  Romanzero  " : — 

"  Do  I  really  exist?  My  body  is  so  shrunken  that  I  am  hardly  any- 
thing but  a  voice  ;  and  my  bed  reminds  me  of  the  singing  grave  of  the 
magician  Merlin,  which  lies  in  the  forest  of  Brozeliand,  in  Brittany, 
under  tall  oaks  whose  tops  soar  like  green  flames  toward  heaven.  Alas  ! 
I  envy  thee  those  trees  and  the  fresh  breeze  that  moves  their  branches, 
brother  Merlin,  for  no  green  leaf  rustles  about  my  mattress-grave  in 
Paris,  where  early  and  late  I  hear  nothing  but  the  rolling  of  vehicles, 
hammering,  quarrelling,  and  piano-strumming.  A  grave  without  repose, 
death  without  the  privileges  of  the  dead,  who  have  no  debts  to  pay,  and 
need  write  neither  letters  nor  books — that  is  a  piteous  condition.  Long 
ago  the  measure  has  been  taken  for  my  coffin  and  for  my  necrology  ;  but 
I  die  so  slowly,  that  the  process  is  tedious  for  me  as  well  as  my  friends. 
But  patience  ;  everything  has  an  end.  You  will  one  day  find  the  booth 
closed  where  the  puppet-show  of  my  humor  has  so  often  delighted  you." 

As  early  as  1850,  it  was  rumored  that  since  Heine's  illness 
a  change  had  taken  place  in  his  religious  views ;  and  as  rumor 
seldom  stops  short  of  extremes,  it  was  soon  said  that  he  had 
become  a  thorough  pietist,  Catholics  and  Protestants  by  turns 
claiming  him  as  a  convert.  Such  a  change  in  so  uncompro- 
mising an  iconoclast,  in  a  man  who  had  been  so  zealous  in  his 
negations  as  Heine,  naturally  excited  considerable  sensation 
in  the  camp  he  was  supposed  to  have  quitted,  as  well  as  in 
that  he  was  supposed  to  have  joined.  In  the  second  volume 
of  the  "  Salon  "  and  in  the  "  Romantische  Schule, "  written  in 
1834  and  '35,  the  doctrine  of  Pantheism  is  dwelt  on  with  a 
fervor  and  unmixed  seriousness  which  show  that  Pantheism 
was  then  an  animating  faith  to  Heine,  and  he  attacks  what  he 
considers  the  false  spiritualism  and  asceticism  of  Christianity 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  81 

as  the  enemy  of  true  beauty  in  Art,  and  of  social  well-being. 
Now,  however,  it  was  said  that  Heine  had  recanted  all  his 
heresies;  but  from  the  fact  that  visitors  to  his  sick-room 
brought  away  very  various  impressions  as  to  his  actual  relig- 
ious views,  it  seemed  probable  that  his  love  of  mystification 
had  found  a  tempting  opportunity  for  exercise  on  this  subject, 
and  that,  as  one  of  his  friends  said,  he  was  not  inclined  to 
pour  out  unmixed  wine  to  those  who  asked  for  a  sample  out 
of  mere  curiosity.  At  length,  in  the  epilogue  to  the  "  Roman- 
zero,"  dated  1851,  there  appeared,  amidst  much  mystifying 
"banter,  a  declaration  that  he  had  embraced  Theism  and  the 
belief  in  a  future  life ;  and  what  chiefly  lent  an  air  of  serious- 
ness and  reliability  to  this  affirmation,  was  the  fact  that  he 
took  care  to  accompany  it  with  certain  negations : — 

"As  concerns  myself,  lean  boast  of  no  particular  progress  in  politics ; 
I  adhered  (after  1848)  to  the  same  democratic  principles  which  had  the 
homage  of  my  youth,  and  for  which  I  have  ever  since  glowed  with  in- 
creasing fervor.  In  theology,  on  the  contrary,  I  must  accuse  myself  of 
retrogression,  since,  as  I  have  already  confessed,  I  returned  to  the  old 
superstition — to  a  personal  God.  This  fact  is,  once  for  all,  not  to  be 
stifled,  as  many  enlightened  and  well-meaning  friends  would  fain  have 
had  it.  But  I  must  expressly  contradict  the  report  that  my  retrograde 
movement  has  carried  me  as  far  as  to  the  threshold  of  a  Church,  and 
that  I  have  even  been  received  into  her  lap.  No  :  my  religious  convic- 
tions and  views  have  remained  free  from  any  tincture  of  ecclesiasticism ; 
no  chiming  of  bells  has  allured  me,  no  altar-candles  have  dazzled  me. 
I  have  dallied  with  no  dogmas,  and  have  not  utterly  renounced  my 
reason," 

This  sounds  like  a  serious  statement.  But  what  shall  we 
say  to  a  convert  who  plays  with  his  newly  acquired  belief  in 
a  future  life  as  Heine  does  in  the  very  next  page?  He  says 
to  his  reader : — 

"Console  thyself  ;  we  shall  meet  again  in  a  better  world,  where  I  also 
mean  to  write  thee  better  books.  I  take  for  granted  that  my  health 
will  there  be  improved,  and  that  Swedenborg  has  not  deceived  me. 
He  relates,  namely,  with  great  confidence,  that  we  shall  peacefully  carry 
on  our  old  occupations  in  the  other  world,  just  as  we  have  done  in  this ; 
that  we  shall  there  preserve  our  individuality  unaltered,  and  that  death 
will  produce  no  particular  change  in  our  organic  development.  Sweden- 
borg is  a  thoroughly  honorable  fellow,  and  quite  worthy  of  credit  in 
what  he  tells  us  about  the  other  world,  where  he  saw  with  his  own  eyes 
6 


82  GERMAN  WIT: 

the  persons  who  had  played  a  great  part  on  our  earth.  Most  of  them, 
he  says,  remained  unchanged,  and  busied  themselves  with  the  same  things 
as  formerly ;  they  remained  stationary,  were  old-fashioned,  rococo — 
which  now  and  then  produced  a  ludicrous  effect.  For  example,  our  dear 
Dr.  Martin  Luther  kept  fast  by  his  doctrine  of  Grace,  about  which  he 
had  for  three  hundred  years  daily  written  down  the  same  mouldy  argu- 
ments— just  in  the  same  way  as  the  late  Baron  Ekstein,  who  during 
twenty  years  printed  in  the  'Allgemeine  Zeitung'  one  and  the  same 
article,  perpetually  chewing  over  again  the  old  cud  of  Jesuitical  doctrine. 
But,  as  we  have  said,  all  persons  who  once  figured  here  below  were  not 
found  by  Swedenborg  in  such  a  state  of  fossil  immutability  :  many 
have  considerably  developed  their  character,  both  for  good  and  evil,  in 
the  other  world  ;  and  this  gave  rise  to  some  singular  results.  Some  who 
had  been  heroes  and  saints  on  earth  had  there  sunk  into  scamps  and 
good-for-nothings ,  and  there  were  examples,  too,  of  a  contrary  trans- 
formation. For  instance,  the  fumes  of  self-conceit  mounted  to  St.  An- 
thony's head  when  he  learned  what  immense  veneration  and  adoration 
had  been  paid  to  him  by  all  Christendom  ;  and  he  who  here  below  with- 
stood the  most  terrible  temptations,  was  now  quite  an  impertinent  rascal 
and  dissolute  gallows-bird,  who  vied  with  his  pig  in  rolling  himself  in 
the  mud.  The  chaste  Susanna,  from  having  been  excessively  vain  of 
her  virtue,  which  she  thought  indomitable,  came  to  a  shameful  fall,  and 
she  who  once  so  gloriously  resisted  the  two  old  men,  was  a  victim  to 
the  seductions  of  the  young  Absalom,  the  son  of  David.  On  the  con- 
trary, Lot's  daughters  had  in  the  lapse  of  time  become  very  virtuous, 
and  passed  in  the  other  world  for  models  of  propriety  .  the  old  man, 
alas !  had  stuck  to  the  wine-flask." 

In  his  "  Gestandnisse, "  the  retractation  of  former  opinions 
and  profession  of  Theism  are  renewed,  but  in  a  strain  of  irony 
that  repels  our  sympathy  and  baffles  our  psychology.  Yet 
what  strange,  deep  pathos  is  mingled  with  the  audacity  of  the 
following  passage ! — 

"What  avails  it  me,  that  enthusiastic  youths  and  maidens  crown  my 
marble  bust  with  laurel,  when  the  withered  hands  of  an  aged  nurse  are 
pressing  Spanish  flies  behind  my  ears?  What  avails  it  me,  that  all  the 
roses  of  Shiraz  glow  and  waft  incense  for  me?  Alas !  Shiraz  is  two 
thousand  miles  from  the  Rue  d' Amsterdam,  where,  in  the  wearisome 
loneliness  of  my  sick-room,  I  get  no  scent  except  it  be,  perhaps,  the 
perfume  of  warmed  towels.  Alas  !  God's  satire  weighs  heavily  on  me. 
The  great  Author  of  the  universe,  the  Aristophanes  of  Heaven,  was  bent 
on  demonstrating,  with  crushing  force,  to  me,  the  little,  earthly,  Ger- 
man Aristophanes,  how  my  wittiest  sarcasms  are  only  pitiful  attempts 
at  jesting  in  comparison  with  His,  and  how  miserably  I  am  beneath  Him 
in  humor,  in  colossal  mockery." 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  83, 

For  our  own  part,  we  regard  the  paradoxical  irreverence 
with  which  Heine  professes  his  theoretical  reverence  as  patho-; 
logical,  as  the  diseased  exhibition  of  a  predominant  tendency 
urged  into  anomalous  action  by  the  pressure  -of  pain  and  men- 
tal privation — as  the  delirium  of  wit  starved  of  its  proper 
nourishment.  It  is  not  for  us  to  condemn,  who  have  never 
had  the  same  burden  laid  on  us ;  it  is  not  for  pygmies  at  their 
ease  to  criticise  the  writhings  of  the  Titan  chained  to  the 
rock. 

On  one  other  point  we  must  touch  before  quitting  Heine's 
personal  history.  There  is  a  standing  accusation  against  him 
in  some  quarters  of  wanting  political  principle,  of  wishing  to 
denationalize  himself,  and  of  indulging  in  insults  against  his 
native  country.  Whatever  ground  may  exist  for  these  accu- 
sations, that  ground  is  not,  so  far  as  we  see,  to  be  found  in  his 
writings.  He  may  not  have  much  faith  in  German  revolutions 
and  revolutionists ;  experience,  in  his  case  as  in  that  of  others, 
may  have  thrown  his  millennial  anticipations  into  more  distant 
perspective;  but  we  see  no  evidence  that  he  has  ever  swerved 
from  his  attachment  to  the  principles  of  freedom,  or  written 
anything  which  to  a  philosophic  mind  is  incompatible  with 
true  patriotism.  He  has  expressly  denied  the  report  that  he 
wished  to  become  naturalized  in  France;  and  his  yearning 
toward  his  native  land  and  the  accents  of  his  native  language 
is  expressed  with  a  pathos  the  more  reliable  from  the  fact  that 
he  is  sparing  in  such  effusions.  We  do  not  see  why  Heine's 
satire  of  the  blunders  and  foibles  of  his  fellow-countrymen 
should  be  denounced  as  the  crime  of  lese-patrie,  any  more  than 
the  political  caricatures  of  any  other  satirist.  The  real  of- 
fences of  Heine  are  his  occasional  coarseness  and  his  unscru- 
pulous personalities,  which  are  reprehensible,  not  because  they 
are  directed  against  his  fellow-countrymen,  but  because  they 
are  personalities.  That  these  offences  have  their  precedents 
in  men  whose  memory  the  world  delights  to  honor,  does  not 
remove  their  turpitude,  but  it  is  a  fact  which  should  modify 
our  condemnation  in  a  particular  case — unless,  indeed,  we  are 
to  deliver  our  judgments  on  a  principle  of  compensation,  mak- 
ing up  for  our  indulgence  in  one  direction  by  our  severity  in 
another.  On  this  ground  of  coarseness  and  personality,  a  true 


84  GERMAN   WIT: 

bill  may  be  found  against  Heine  —  not,  we  think,  011  the 
ground  that  he  has  laughed  at  what  is  laughable  in  his  com- 
patriots. Here  is  a  specimen  of  the  satire  under  which  we 
suppose  German  patriots  wince : — 

"Rhenish  Bavaria  was  to  be  the  starting-point  of  the  German  revolu- 
tion. Zweibriicken  was  the  Bethlehem  in  which  the  infant  Saviour — 
Freedom — lay  in  the  cradle,  and  gave  whimpering  promise  of  redeeming 
the  world.  Near  his  cradle  bellowed  many  an  ox,  who  afterward,  when 
his  horns  were  reckoned  on,  showed  himself  a  very  harmless  brute.  It 
was  confidently  believed  that  the  German  revolution  would  begin  in 
Zweibrticken,  and  everything  was  there  ripe  for  an  outbreak.  But,  as 
lias  been  hinted,  the  tender-heartedness  of  some  persons  frustrated  that 
illegal  undertaking.  For  example,  among  the  Bipontine  conspirators 
there  was  a  tremendous  braggart,  who  was  always  loudest  in  his  rage, 
who  boiled  over  with  the  hatred  of  tyranny,  and  this  man  was  fixed  onto 
strike  the  first  blow,  by  cutting  down  a  sentinel  who  kept  an  important 
post.  .  .  .  '  What ! '  cried  the  man,  when  this  order  was  given  him — 
'  what ! — me  !  Can  you  expect  so  horrible,  so  bloodthirsty  an  act  of  me? 
I — 7,  kill  an  innocent  sentinel?  I,  who  am  father  of  a  family  !  And 
this  sentinel  is  perhaps  also  father  of  a  family.  One  father  of  a  family 
kill  another  father  of  a  family?  Yes!  Kill — murder!'" 

In  political  matters,  Heine,  like  all  men  whose  intellect  and 
taste  predominate  too  far  over  their  impulses  to  allow  of  their 
becoming  partisans,  is  offensive  alike  to  the  aristocrat  and  the 
democrat.  By  the  one  he  is  denounced  as  a  man  who  holds 
incendiary  principles,  by  the  other  as  a  half-hearted  "  trimmer. " 
He  has  no  sympathy,  as  he  says,  with  "  that  vagtie,  barren  pa- 
thos, that  useless  effervescence  of  enthusiasm,  which  plunges, 
with  the  spirit  of  a  martyr,  into  an  ocean  of  generalities,  and 
which  always  reminds  me  of  the  American  sailor,  who  had  so 
fervent  an  enthusiasm  for  General  Jackson  that  he  at  last 
sprang  from  the  top  of  a  mast  into  the  sea,  crying,  '  /  die  for 
General  Jackson  ! '  " 

"But  thou  liest,  Brutus,  thou  liest,  Cassius,  and  thou,  too,  liest, 
Asinius,  in  maintaining  that  my  ridicule  attacks  these  ideas  which  are 
the  precious  acquisition  of  Humanity,  and  tor  which  I  myself  have  so 
striven  and  suffered.  No !  for  the  very  reason  that  those  ideas  con- 
stantly hover  before  the  poet  in  glorious  splendor  and  majesty,  he  is  the 
more  irresistibly  overcome  by  laughter  whew  he  sees  how  rudely,  awk- 
wardly, and  clumsily  those  ideas  are  seized  and  mirrored  in  the  con- 
tracted minds  of  contemporaries.  .  .  .  There  are  mirrors  which  have 
so  rough  a  surface  that  even  an  Apollo  reflected  in  them  becomes  a  carica- 


HEOTRICH  HEINE.  85 

ture,  and  excites  our  laughter.  But  we  laugh  then  only  at  the  caricature, 
not  at  the  god." 

For  the  rest,  why  should  we  demand  of  Heine  that  he  should 
be  a  hero,  a  patriot,  a  solemn  prophet,  any  more  than  we 
should  demand  of  a  gazelle  that  it  should  draw  well  in  har- 
ness? Nature  has  not  made  him  of  her  sterner  stuff — not 
of  iron  and  adamant,  but  of  pollen  of  flowers,  the  juice  of 
the  grape,  and  Puck's  mischievous  brain,  plenteously  mixing 
also  the  dews  of  kindly  affection  and  the  gold-dust  of  noble 
thoughts.  It  is,  after  all,  a  tribute  which  his  enemies  pay 
him  when  they  utter  their  bitterest  dictum — namely,  that  he 
is  "  nur  Dichter  " — only  a  poet.  Let  us  accept  this  point  of 
view  for  the  present,  and,  leaving  all  consideration  of  him  as 
a  man,  look  at  him  simply  as  a  poet  and  literary  artist. 

Heine  is  essentially  a  lyric  poet.  The  finest  products  of 
his  genius  are 

"  Short  swallow-flights  of  song  that  dip 
Their  wings  in  tears,  and  skim  away  " ; 

and  they  are  so  emphatically  songs,  that,  in  reading  them,  we 
feel  as  if  each  must  have  a  twin  melody  born  in  the  same 
moment  and  by  the  same  inspiration.  Heine  is  too  impressi- 
ble and  mercurial  for  any  sustained  production :  even  in  his 
short  lyrics  his  tears  sometimes  pass  into  laughter,  and  his 
laughter  into  tears;  and  his  longer  poems,  "  Atta  Troll"  and 
"  Deutschland, "  are  full  of  Ariosto-like  transitions.  His  song 
has  a  wide  compass  of  notes :  he  can  take  us  to  the  shores  of 
the  Northern  Sea  and  thrill  us  by  the  sombre  sublimity  of  his 
pictures  and  dreamy  fancies ;  he  can  draw  forth  our  tears  by 
the  voice  he  gives  to  our  own  sorrows,  or  to  the  sorrows  of 
"  Poor  Peter  " ;  he  can  throw  a  cold  shudder  over  us  by  a  mys- 
terious legend,  a  ghost-story,  or  a  still  more  ghastl}r  rendering 
of  hard  reality ;  he  can  charm  us  by  a  quiet  idyl,  shake  us 
with  laughter  at  his  overflowing  fun,  or  give  us  a  piquant  sen- 
sation of  surprise  by  the  ingenuity  of  his  transitions  from  the 
lofty  to  the  ludicrous.  This  last  power  is  not,  indeed,  essen- 
tially poetical;  but  only  a  poet  can  use  it  with  the  same  suc- 
cess as  Heine,  for  only  a  poet  can  poise  our  emotion  and  ex- 
pectation at  such  a  height  as  to  give  effect  to  the  sudden  fall. 


86  GERMAN  WIT: 

Heine's  greatest  power  as  a  poet  lies  in  his  simple  pathos,  in 
the  ever  varied  but  always  natural  expression  he  has  given  to 
the  tender  emotions.  We  may  perhaps  indicate  this  phase  of 
his  genius  by  referring  to  Wordsworth' s  beautiful  little  poem, 
"  She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways  " ;  the  conclusion — 

"  She  dwelt  alone,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be  ; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and  oh  ! 
The  difference  to  me  " — 

is  entirely  in  Heine's  manner;  and  so  is  Tennyson's  poem  of 
a  dozen  lines,  called  "  Circumstance."  Both  these  poems  have 
Heine's  pregnant  simplicity.  But  lest  this  comparison  should 
mislead,  we  must  say  tha't  there  is  no  general  resemblance 
between  either  Wordsworth,  or  Tennyson,  and  Heine.  Their 
greatest  qualities  lie  quite  away  from  the  light,  delicate  lucid- 
ity, the  easy,  rippling  music,  of  Heine's  style.  The  dis- 
tinctive charm  of  his  lyrics  may  best  be  seen  by  comparing 
them  with  Goethe's.  Both  have  the  same  masterly  finished 
simplicity  and  rhythmic  grace;  but  there  is  more  thought 
mingled  with  Goethe's  feeling — his  lyrical  genius  is  a  vessel 
that  draws  more  water  than  Heine's,  and  though  it  seems  to 
glide  along  with  equal  ease,  we  have  a  sense  of  greater  weight 
and  force  accompanying  the  grace  of  its  movement.  But,  for 
this  very  reason,  Heine  touches  our  hearts  more  strongly ;  his 
songs  are  all  music  and  feeling — they  are  like  birds  that  not 
only  enchant  us  with  their  delicious  notes,  but  nestle  against 
us  with  their  soft  breasts,  and  make  us  feel  the  agitated  beat- 
ing of  their  hearts.  He  indicates  a  whole  sad  history  in  a 
single  quatrain:  there  is  not  an  image  in  it,  not  a  thought; 
but  it  is  beautiful,  simple,  and  perfect  as  a  "  big  round  tear  " 
— it  is  pure  feeling  breathed  in  pure  music : 

"Anfangs  wollt'  ich  fast  verzagen 
Und  ich  glaubt'  ich  trug  es  nie, 
Und  ich  hab'  es  doch  getragen, — 
Aber  fragt  mich  nur  nicht,  wie."1 

He  excels  equally  in  the  more  imaginative  expression  of 

1  At  first  I  was  almost  in  despair,  and  I  thought  I  could  never  bear  it 
and  yet  I  have  borne  it — only  do  not  ask  me  how  f 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  87 

feeling :  he  represents  it  by  a  brief  image,  like  a  finely  cut 
cameo;  lie  expands  it  into  a  mysterious  dream,  or  dramatizes 
it  in  a  little  story,  half  ballad,  half  idyl;  and  in  all  these, 
forms  his  art  is  so  perfect,  that  we  never  have  a  sense  of  arti- 
ficiality or  of  unsuccessful  effort;  but  all  seems  to  have  de- 
veloped itself  by  the  same  beautiful  necessity  that  brings  forth 
vine-leaves  and  grapes  and  the  natural  curls  of  childhood.  Of 
Heine's  humorous  poetry,  "  Deutschland  "  is  the  most  charm- 
ing specimen — charming  especially,  because  its  wit  and  humor 
grow  out  of  a  rich  loam  of  thought.  "  Atta  Troll "  is  more 
original,  more  various,  more  fantastic ;  but  it  is  too  great  a 
strain  on  the  imagination  to  be  a  general  favorite.  We  have 
said  that  feeling  is  the  element  in  which  Heine' s  poetic  genius 
habitually  floats;  but  he  can  occasionally  soar  to  a  higher 
region,  and  impart  deep  significance  to  picturesque  symbol- 
ism ;  he  can  flash  a  sublime  thought  over  the  past  and  into 
the  future ;  he  can  pour  forth  a  lofty  strain  of  hope  or  indig- 
nation. Few  could  forget,  after  once  hearing  them,  the 
stanzas  at  the  close  of  "Deutschland,"  in  which  he  warns  the 
King  of  Prussia  not  to  incur  the  irredeemable  hell  which 
the  injured  poet  can  create  for  him — the  singing  flames  of  a 
Dante's  terza  rima! 

"  Kennst  du  die  Holle  des  Dante  nicht, 
Die  schrecklichen  Terzetten? 

Wen  da  der  Dichter  hineingesperrt  • 

Den  kann  kein  Gott  mehr  retten. 

"Kein  Gott,  kein  Heiland,  erlost  ihn  je 
Aus  diesen  singenden  flammen  ! 
Nimm  dich  in  Acht,  das  wir  dich  nicht 
Zu  solcher  Hblle  verdammen."1 

As  a  prosaist,  Heine  is,  in  one  point  of  view,  even  more 
distinguished  than  as  a  poet.  The  German  language  easily 

1  It  is  not  fair  to  the  English  reader  to  indulge  in  German  quotations, 
but  in  our  opinion  poetical  translations  are  usually  worse  than  valueless. 
For  those  who  think  differently,  however,  we  may  mention  that  Mr. 
Stores  Smith  has  published  a  modest  little  book,  containing  "Selections 
from  the  Poetry  of  Heinrich  Heine,"  and  that  a  meritorious  (American) 
translation  of  Heine's  complete  works,  by  Charles  Leland,  is  now  ap- 
pearing in  shilling  numbers. 


88  GERMAN  WIT: 

lends  itself  to  all  the  purposes  of  poetry ;  like  the  ladies  of 
the  Middle  Ages,  it  is  gracious  and  compliant  to  the  Trouba- 
dours. But  as  these  same  ladies  were  often  crusty  and  repul- 
sive to  their  unmusical  mates,  so  the  German  language  gener- 
ally appears  awkward  and  unmanageable  in  the  hands  of  prose 
writers.  Indeed  the  number  of  really  fine  German  prosaists 
before  Heine  would  hardly  have  exceeded  the  numerating 
powers  of  a  New  Hollander,  who  can  count  three  and  no  more. 
Persons  the  most  familiar  with  German  prose  testify  that 
there  is  an  extra  fatigue  in  reading  it,  just  as  we  feel  an  extra 
fatigue  from  our  walk  when  it  takes  us  over  a  ploughed  clay. 
But  in  Heine's  hands  German  prose,  usually  so  heavy,  so 
clumsy,  so  dull,  becomes,  like  clay  in  the  hands  of  the  chem- 
ist, compact,  metallic,  brilliant;  it  is  German  in  an  allotropic 
condition.  No  dreary,  labyrinthine  sentences  in  which  you 
find  "  no  end  in  wandering  mazes  lost " ;  no  chains  of  adjective 
in  linked  harshness  long  drawn  out;  no  digressions  thrown  in 
as  parentheses ;  but  crystalline  definiteness  and  clearness,  fine 
and  varied  rhythm,  and  all  that  delicate  precision,  all  those 
felicities  of  word  and  cadence,  which  belong  to  the  highest 
order  of  prose.  And  Heine  has  proved — what  Madame  de 
Stael  seems  to  have  doubted — that  it  is  possible  to  be  witty  in 
German;  indeed,  in  reading  him,  you  might  imagine  that 
German  was  pre-eminently  the  language  of  wit,  so  flexible,  so 
subtle,  so  piquant  does  it  become  under  his  management.  He 
is  far  more  an  artist  in  prose  than  Goethe.  He  has  not  the 
breadth  and  repose,  and  the  calm  development  which  belong 
to  Goethe's  style,  for  they  are  foreign  to  his  mental  character; 
but  he  excels  Goethe  in  susceptibility  to  the  manifold  quali- 
ties of  prose,  and  in  mastery  over  its  effects.  Heine  is  full 
of  variety,  of  light  and  shadow :  he  alternates  between  epi- 
grammatic pith,  imaginative  grace,  sly  allusion,  and  daring 
piquancy ;  and  athwart  all  these  there  runs  a  vein  of  sadness, 
tenderness,  and  grandeur  which  reveals  the  poet.  He  con- 
tinually throws  out  those  finely  chiselled  sayings  which  stamp 
themselves  on  the  memory,  and  become  familiar  by  quotation. 
For  example :  "  The  People  have  time  enough,  they  are  im- 
mortal: kings  only  are  mortal."  "Wherever  a  great  soul 
utters  its  thoughts^  there  is  Golgotha. "  "  Nature  wanted  to 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  89 

See  how  she  looked,  and  she  created  Goethe."  "Only  the 
man  who  has  known  bodily  suffering  is  truly  a  man ;  his 
limbs  have  their  Passion-history,  they  are  spiritualized."  He 
calls  Kubens  "  this  Flemish  Titan,  the  wings  of  whose  genius 
were  so  strong  that  he  soared  as  high  as  the  sun,  in  spite  of 
the  hundred-weight  of  Dutch  cheeses  that  hung  on  his  legs." 
Speaking  of  Borne' s  dislike  to  the  calm  creations  of  the  true 
artist,  he  says,  "  He  was  like  a  child  which,  insensible  to  the 
glowing  significance  of  a  Greek  statue,  only  touches  the  mar- 
ble and  complains  of  cold." 

The  most  poetic  and  specifically  humorous  of  Heine's  prose 
writings  are  the  "  Reisebilder. "  The  comparison  with  Sterne 
is  inevitable  here ;  but  Heine  does  not  suffer  from  it,  for  if  he 
falls  below  Sterne  in  raciness  of  humor,  he  is  far  above  him 
in  poetic  sensibility,  and  in  reach  and  variety  of  thought. 
Heine's  humor  is  never  persistent,  it  never  flows  on  long  in 
easy  gayety  and  drollery ;  where  it  is  not  swelled  by  the  tide 
of  poetic  feeling,  it  is  continually  dashing  down  the  precipice 
of  a  witticism.  It  is  not  broad  and  unctuous ;  it  is  aerial  and 
sprite-like,  a  momentary  resting-place  between  his  poetry  and 
his  wit.  In  the  "  Eeisebilder "  he  runs  through  the  whole 
gamut  of  his  powers,  and  gives  us  every  hue  of  thought,  from 
the  wildly  droll  and  fantastic  to  the  sombre  and  the  terrible. 
Here  is  a  passage  almost  Dantesque  in  its  conception : — 

"Alas!  one  ought  in  truth  to  write  against  no  one  in  this  world. 
Each  of  us  is  sick  enough  in  this  great  lazaretto,  and  many  a  polemical 
writing  reminds  me  involuntarily  of  a  revolting  quarrel,  in  a  little 
hospital  at  Cracow,  of  which  I  chanced  to  be  a  witness,  and  where  it 
was  horrible  to  hear  how  the  patients  mockingly  reproached  each  other 
with  their  infirmities  :  how  one  who  was  wasted  by  consumption  jeered 
at  another  who  was  bloated  by  dropsy ;  how  one  laughed  at  another's 
cancer  in  the  nose,  and  this  one  again  at  his  neighbor's  locked-jaw  or 
squint,  until  at  last  the  delirious  fever-patient  sprang  out  of  bed  and 
tore  away  the  coverings  from  the  wounded  bodies  of  his  companions, 
and  nothing  was  to  be  seen  but  hideous  misery  and  mutilation." 

And  how  fine  is  the  transition  in  the  very  next  chapter  where, 
after  quoting  the  Homeric  description  of  the  feasting  gods,  he 
says : — 

"Then  suddenly  approached,  panting,  a  pale  Jew,  with  drops  of  blood 
on  his  brow,  with  a  crown  of  thorns  on  his  head,  and  a  great  cross  laid 


90  GERMAN  WIT-. 

Oil  bis  shoulders  ;  and  lie  threw  the  cross  on  the  high  table  of  the  gods, 
so  that  the  golden  cups  tottered,  and  the  gods  became  dumb  and  pale, 
and  grew  even  paler,  till  they  at  last  melted  away  into  vapor." 

The  richest  specimens  of  Heine's  wit  are  perhaps  to  be 
found  in  the  works  which  have  appeared  since  the  "  Reise- 
bilder."  The  years,  if  they  have  intensified  his  satirical  bit- 
terness, have  also  given  his  wit  a  finer  edge  and  polish.  His 
sarcasms  are  so  subtly  prepared  and  so  slyly  allusive,  that 
they  may  often  escape  readers  whose  sense  of  wit  is  not  very 
acute ;  but  for  those  who  delight  in  the  subtle  and  delicate 
flavors  of  style,  there  can  hardly  be  any  wit  more  irresistible 
than  Heine's.  We  may  measure  its  force  by  the  degree  in 
which  it  has  subdued  the  German  language  to  its  purposes, 
and  made  that  language  brilliant  in  spite  of  a  long  hereditary 
transmission  of  dulness.  As  one  of  the  most  harmless  exam- 
ples of  his  satire,  take  this  on  a  man  who  has  certainly  had 
his  share  of  adulation : — 

"Assuredly  it  is  far  from  my  purpose  to  depreciate  M.  Victor  Cousin. 
The  titles  of  this  celebrated  philosopher  even  lay  me  under  an  obligation 
to  praise  him.  He  belongs  to  that  living  pantheon  of  France,  which  we 
call  the  peerage,  and  his  intelligent  legs  rest  on  the  velvet  benches  of  the 
Luxembourg.  I  must  indeed  sternly  repress  all  private  feelings  which 
might  seduce  me  into  an  excessive  enthusiasm.  Otherwise  I  might  be 
suspected  of  servility  ;  for  M.  Cousin  is  very  influential  in  the  State  by 
means  of  his  position  and  his  tongue.  This  consideration  might  even 
move  me  to  speak  of  his  faults  as  frankly  as  of  his  virtues.  Will  he 
himself  disprove  of  this?  Assuredly  not.  I  know  that  we  cannot  do 
higher  honor  to  great  minds  than  when  we  throw  as  strong  a  light  on 
their  demerits  as  on  their  merits.  When  we  sing  the  praises  of  a  Her- 
cules, we  must  also  mention  that  he  once  laid  aside  the  lion's  skin  and 
sat  down  to  the  distaff :  what  then?  he  remains  notwithstanding  a  Her- 
cules !  So  when  we  relate  similar  circumstances  concerning  M.  Cousin, 
we  must  nevertheless  add,  with  discriminating  eulogy:  M.  Cousin,  if 
he  has  sometimes  sat  twaddling  at  the  distaff,  has  never  laid  aside  the  lion's 
skin.  ...  It  is  true  that,  having  been  suspected  of  demagogy,  he  spent 
some  time  in  a  German  prison,  just  as  Lafayette  and  Richard  Coeur  de 
Lion.  But  that  M.  Cousin  there  in  his  leisure  hours  studied  Kant's 
'  Critique  of  Pure  Reason  '  is  to  be  doubted  on  three  grounds.  First, 
this  book  is  written  in  German.  Secondly,  in  order  to  read  this  book, 
a  man  must  understand  German.  Thirdly,  M.  Cousin  does  not  under- 
stand German.  ...  I  fear  I  am  passing  unawares  from  the  sweet  waters 
of  praise  into  the  bitter  ocean  of  blame.  Yes,  on  one  account  I  cannot 
refrain  from  bitterly  blaming  M.  Cousin — namely,  that  he  who  loves 


HEINRICH  HEINE.  01 

truth  far  more  than  he  loves  Plato  and  Tenneman,  is  unjust  to  himself 
when  he  wants  to  persuade  us  that  he  has  borrowed  something  from  the 
philosophy  of  Schelling  and  Hegel.  Against  this  self-accusation,  I  must 
take  M.  Cousin  under  my  protection.  On  my  word  and  conscience ! 
this  honorable  man  has  not  stolen  a  jot  from  Schelling  and  Hegel,  and 
if  he  brought  home  anything  of  theirs,  it  was  merely  their  friendship. 
That  does  honor  to  his  heart.  But  there  are  many  instances  of  such  false 
self-accusation  in  psychology.  I  knew  a  man  who  declared  that  he  had 
stolen  silver  spoons  at  the  king's  table ;  and  yet  we  all  knew  that  the 
poor  devil  had  never  been  presented  at  Court,  and  accused  himself  of 
stealing  these  spoons  to  make  us  believe  that  he  had  been  a  guest  at  the 
palace.  No !  In  German  philosophy  M.  Cousin  has  always  kept  the 
sixth  commandment ;  here  he  has  never  pocketed  a  single  idea,  not  so 
much  as  a  salt-spoon  of  an  idea.  All  witnesses  agree  in  attesting  that 
in  this  respect  M.  Cousin  is  honor  itself.  ...  I  prophesy  to  you  that 
the  renown  of  M.  Cousin,  like  the  French  Revolution,  will  go  round 
the  world  !  I  hear  some  one  wickedly  add  Undeniably  the  renown  of 
M.  Cousin  is  going  round  the  world,  and  it  has  already  taken  its  departure 
from  France." 

The  following  "  symbolical  myth  "  about  Louis  Philippe  is 
very  characteristic  of  Heine' s  manner : — 

"I  remember  very  well  that  immediately  on  my  arrival  [in  Paris]  I 
hastened  to  the  Palais  Royal  to  see  Louis  Philippe.  The  friend  who 
conducted  me  told  me  that  the  king  now  appeared  on  the  terrace  only  at 
stated  hours,  but  that  formerly  he  was  to  be  seen  at  any  time  for  five 
francs.  '  For  five  francs !  '  I  cried,  with  amazement ;  '  does  he  then 
show  himself  for  money?  '  'No;  but  he  is  shown  for  money,  and  it 
happens  in  this  way:  there  is  a  society  of  claqueurs,  marchands  de  con- 
trernarques,  and  such  riff-raff,  who  offered  every  foreigner  to  show  him 
the  king  for  five  francs-  if  he  would  give  ten  francs,  he  might  see  the 
king  raise  his  eyes  to  heaven,  and  lay  his  hand  protestingly  on  his  heart ; 
if  he  would  give  twenty  francs,  the  king  would  slug  the  Marseillaise. 
If  the  foreigner  gave  five  francs,  they  raised  a  loud  cheering  under  the 
king's  windows,  and  his  Majesty  appeared  on  the  terrace,  bowed,  and 
retired.  If  ten  francs,  they  shouted  still  louder,  and  gesticulated  as  if 
they  had  been  possessed,  when  the  king  appeared,  who  then,  as  a  sign 
of  silent  emotion,  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven,  and  laid  his  hand  on  his 
heart.  English  visitors,  however,  would  sometimes  spend  as  much  as 
twenty  francs,  and  then  the  enthusiasm  mounted  to  the  highest  pitch  : 
no  sooner  did  the  king  appear  on  the  terrace,  than  the  Marseillaise  was 
struck  up  and  roared  out  frightfully,  until  Louis  Philippe,  perhaps  only 
for  the  sake  of  putting  an  end  to  the  singing,  bowed,  laid  his  hand  on 
his  heart,  and  joined  in  the  Marseillaise.  Whether,  as  is  asserted,  he 
beat  time  with  his  foot,  I  cannot  say. ' " 


EVANGELICAL   TEACHING:    DE.  CUMMING. 

GIVEN,  a  man  with  moderate  intellect,  a  moral  standard  not 
higher  than  the  average,  some  rhetorical  affluence  and  great 
glibness  of  speech,  what  is  the  career  in  which,  without  the 
aid  of  birth  or  money,  he  may  most  easily  attain  power  and 
reputation  in  English  society?  Where  is  that  Goshen  of 
mediocrity  in  which  a  smattering  of  science  and  learning  will 
pass  for  profound  instruction,  where  platitudes  will  be  accepted 
as  wisdom,  bigoted  narrowness  as  holy  zeal,  unctuous  egoism 
as  God-given  piety?  Let  such  a  man  become  an  evangelical 
preacher;  he  will  then  find  it  possible  to  reconcile  small  abil- 
ity with  great  ambition,  superficial  knowledge  with  the  pres- 
tige of  erudition,  a  middling  morale  with  a  high  reputation  for 
sanctity.  Let  him  shun  practical  extremes  and  be  ultra  only 
in  what  is  purely  theoretic :  let  him  be  stringent  on  predesti- 
nation, but  latitudinarian  on  fasting ;  unflinching  in  insisting 
on  the  eternity  of  punishment,  but  diffident  of  curtailing  the 
substantial  comforts  of  time ;  ardent  and  imaginative  on  the 
premillennial  advent  of  Christ,  but  cold  and  cautious  toward 
every  other  infringement  of  the  status  quo.  Let  him  fish  for 
souls  not  with  the  bait  of  inconvenient  singularity,  but  with 
the  drag-net  of  comfortable  conformity.  Let  him  be  hard  and 
literal  in  his  interpretation  only  when  he  wants  to  hurl  texts 
at  the  heads  of  unbelievers  and  adversaries,  but  when  the 
letter  of  the  Scriptures  presses  too  closely  on  the  genteel 
Christianity  of  the  nineteenth  century,  let  him  use  his  spirit- 
ualizing alembic  and  disperse  it  into  impalpable  ether.  Let 
him  preach  less  of  Christ  than  of  Antichrist ;  let  him  be  less 
definite  in  showing  what  sin  is  than  in  showing  who  is  the 
Man  of  Sin,  less  expansive  on  the  blessedness  of  faith  than  on 
the  accursedness  of  infidelity.  Above  all,  let  him  set  up  as 
an  interpreter  of  prophecy,  and  rival  Moore' s  Almanack  in  the 
prediction  of  political  events,  tickling  the  interests  of  hearers 


EVANGELICAL  TEACHING.    DR.   CUMMING.  93 

who  are  but  moderately  spiritual  by  showing  how  the  Holy 
Spirit  has  dictated  problems  and  charades  for  their  benefit, 
and  how,  if  they  are  ingenious  enough  to  solve  these,  they  may 
have  their  Christian  graces  nourished  by  learning  precisely  to 
whom  they  may  point  as  the  "  horn  that  had  eyes,"  "  the  lying 
prophet,"  and  the  "unclean  spirits."  In  this  way  he  will 
draw  men  to  him  by  the  strong  cords  of  their  passions,  made 
reason-proof  by  being  baptized  with  the  name  of  piety.  In 
this  way  he  may  gain  a  metropolitan  pulpit ;  the  avenues  to 
his  church  will  be  as  crowded  as  the  passages  to  the  opera; 
he  has  but  to  print  his  prophetic  sermons  and  bind  them  in 
lilac  and  gold,  and  they  will  adorn  the  drawing-room  table  of 
all  evangelical  ladies,  who  will  regard  as  a  sort  of  pious  "  light 
reading  "  the  demonstration  that  the  prophecy  of  the  locusts 
whose  sting  is  in  their  tail,  is  fulfilled  in  the  fact  of  the  Turk- 
ish commander's  having  taken  a  horse's  tail  for  his  standard, 
and  that  the  French  are  the  very  frogs  predicted  in  the  Keve- 
lation. 

Pleasant  to  the  clerical  flesh  under  such  circumstances  is 
the  arrival  of  Sunday !  Somewhat  at  a  disadvantage  during 
the  week,  in  the  presence  of  working-day  interests  and  lay 
splendors,  on  Sunday  the  preacher  becomes  the  cynosure  of 
a  thousand  eyes,  and  predominates  at  once  over  the  Amphi- 
tryon with  whom  he  dines,  and  the  most  captious  member  of 
his  church  or  vestry.  He  has  an  immense  advantage  over  all 
other  public  speakers.  The  platform  orator  is  subject  to  the 
criticism  of  hisses  and  groans.  Council  for  the  plaintiff  ex- 
pects the  retort  of  council  for  the  defendant.  The  honorable 
gentleman  on  one  side  of  the  House  is  liable  to  have  his  facts 
and  figures  shown  up  by  his  honorable  friend  on  the  opposite 
side.  Even  the  scientific  or  literary  lecturer,  if  he  is  dull  or 
incompetent,  may  see  the  best  part  of  -his  audience  slip  quietly 
out  one  by  one.  But  the  preacher  is  completely  master  of  the 
situation:  no  one  may  hiss,  no  one  may  depart.  Like  the 
writer  of  imaginary  conversations,  he  may  put  what  imbecili- 
ties he  pleases  into  the  mouths  of  his  antagonists,  and  swell 
with  triumph  when  he  has  refuted  them.  He  may  riot  in 
gratuitous  assertions,  confident  that  no  man  will  contradict 
he  may  exercise  perfect  free- will  in  logic,  and  invent 


94  EVANGELICAL  TEACHING: 

illustrative  experience;  he  may  give  an  evangelical  edition  of 
history  with  the  inconvenient  facts  omitted ; — all  this  he  may 
do  with  impunity,  certain  that  those  of  his  hearers  who  are 
not  sympathizing  are  not  listening.  For  the  Press  has  no 
band  of  critics  who  go  the  round  of  the  churches  and  chapels, 
and  are  on  the  watch  for  a  slip  or  defect  in  the  preacher,  to 
make  a  "  feature  "  in  their  article :  the  clergy  are,  practically, 
the  most  irresponsible  of  all  talkers.  For  this  reason,  at  least, 
it  is  well  that  they  do  not  always  allow  their  discourses  to 
be  merely  fugitive,  but  are  often  induced  to  fix  them  in  that 
black  and  white  in  which  they  are  open  to  the  criticism  of  any 
man  who  has  the  courage  and  patience  to  treat  them  with 
thorough  freedom  of  speech  and  pen. 

It  is  because  we  think  this  criticism  of  clerical  teaching  de- 
sirable for  the  public  good,  that  we  devote  some  pages  to  Dr. 
Gumming.  He  is,  as  every  one  knows,  a  preacher  of  immense 
popularity,  and  of  the  numerous  publications  in  which  he  per- 
petuates his  pulpit  labors,  all  circulate  widely,  and  some,  ac- 
cording to  their  title-page,  have  reached  the  sixteenth  thou- 
sand. Now  our  opinion  of  these  publications  is  the  very 
opposite  of  that  given  by  a  newspaper  eulogist :  we  do  not 
"  believe  that  the  repeated  issues  of  Dr.  Gumming' s  thoughts 
are  having  a  beneficial  effect  on  society, "  but  the  reverse ;  and 
hence,  little  inclined  as  we  are  to  dwell  on  his  pages,  we  think 
it  worth  while  to  do  so,  for  the  sake  of  pointing  out  in  them 
what  we  believe  to  be  profoundly  -mistaken  and  pernicious. 
Of  Dr.  Gumming  personally  we  know  absolutely  nothing :  our 
acquaintance  with  him  is  confined  to  a  perusal  of  his  works ; 
our  judgment  of  him  is  founded  solely  on  the  manner  in  which 
he  has  written  himself  down  on  his  pages.  We  know  neither 
how  he  looks  nor  how  he  lives.  We  are  ignorant  whether, 
like  St.  Paul,  he  has  a  bodily  presence  that  is  weak  and  con- 
temptible, or  whether  his  person  is  as  florid  and  as  prone  to 
amplification  as  his  style.  For  aught  we  know,  he  may  not 
only  have  the  gift  of  prophecy,  but  may  bestow  the  profits  of 
all  his  works  to  feed  the  poor,  and  be  ready  to  give  his  own 
body  to  be  burned  with  as  much  alacrity  as  he  infers  the  ever- 
lasting burning  of  Roman  Catholics  and  'Puseyites.  Out  of 
the  pulpit  he  may  be  a  model  of  justice,  truthfulness,  and  the 


DR.   GUMMING.  95 

love  that  thinketh  no  evil;  but  we  are  obliged  to  judge  of  his 
charity  by  the  spirit  we  find  in  his  sermons,  and  shall  only  be 
glad  to  learn  that  his  practice  is,  in  many  respects,  an  amiable 
non  sequitur  from  his  teaching. 

Dr.  Gumming' s  mind  is  evidently  not  of  the  pietistic  order. 
There  is  not  the  slightest  leaning  toward  mysticism  in  his 
Christianity — no  indication  of  religious  raptures,  of  delight  in 
God,  of  spiritual  communion  with  the  Father.  He  is  most  at 
home  in  the  forensic  view  of  Justification,  and  dwells  on  sal- 
vation as  a  scheme  rather  than  as  an  experience.  He  insists 
on  good  works  as  the  sign  of  justifying  faith,  as  labors  to  be 
achieved  to  the  glory  of  God,  but  he  rarely  represents  them  as 
the  spontaneous,  necessary  outflow  of  a  soul  filled  with  Divine 
love.  He  is  at  home  in  the  external,  the  polemical,  the  his- 
torical, the  circumstantial,  and  is  only  episodically  devout  and 
practical.  The  great  majority  of  his  published  sermons  are 
occupied  with  argument  or  philippic  against  Eomanists  and 
unbelievers,  with  "  vindications  "  of  the  Bible,  with  the  politi- 
cal interpretation  of  prophecy,  or  the  criticism  of  public  events ; 
and  the  devout  aspiration,  or  the  spiritual  and  practical  exhor- 
tation, is  tacked  to  them  as  a  sort  of  fringe  in  a  hurried  sen- 
tence or  two  at  the  end.  He  revels  in  the  demonstration  that 
the  Pope  is  the  Man  of  Sin;  he  is  copious  on  the  downfall  of 
the  Ottoman  empire ;  he  appears  to  glow  with  satisfaction  in 
turning  a  story  which  tends  to  show  how  he  abashed  an  "  in- 
fidel " ;  it  is  a  favorite  exercise  with  him  to  form  conjectures 
of  the  process  by  which  the  earth  is  to  be  burned  up,  and  to 
picture  Dr.  Chalmers  and  Mr.  Wilberforce  being  caught  up 
to  meet  Christ  in  the  air,  while  Romanists,  Puseyites,  and  in- 
fidels are  given  over  to  gnashing  of  teeth.  But  of  really  spir- 
itual joys  and  sorrows,  of  the  life  and  death  of  Christ  as  a. 
manifestation  of  love  that  constrains  the  soul,  of  sympathy 
with  that  yearning  over  the  lost  and  erring  which  made  Jesus 
weep  over  Jerusalem,  and  prompted  the  sublime  prayer,  "  Fa- 
ther, forgive  them,"  of  the  gentler  fruits  of  the  Spirit,  and 
the  peace  of  God  which  passeth  understanding — of  all  this^ 
we  find  little  trace  in  Dr.  Cumming's  discourses. 

His  style  is  in  perfect  correspondence  with  this  habit  of 


96  EVANGELICAL  TEACHING. 

mind.  Though  diffuse,  as  that  of  all  preachers  must  be,  it 
has  rapidity  of  movement,  perfect  clearness,  and  some  aptness 
of  illustration.  He  has  much  of  that  literary  talent  which 
makes  a  good  journalist — the  power  of  beating  out  an  idea 
over  a  large  space,  and  of  introducing  far-fetched  apropos. 
His  writings  have,  indeed,  no  high  merit :  they  have  no  origi- 
nality or  force  of  thought,  no  striking  felicity  of  presenta- 
tion, no  depth  of  emotion.  Throughout  nine  volumes  we  have 
alighted  on  no  passage  which  impressed  us  as  worth  extract- 
ing and  placing  among  the  "  beauties  "  of  evangelical  writers, 
such  as  Robert  Hall,  Foster  the  Essayist,  or  Isaac  Taylor. 
Everywhere  there  is  commonplace  cleverness,  nowhere  a  spark 
of  rare  thought,  of  lofty  sentiment,  or  pathetic  tenderness. 
We  feel  ourselves  in  company  with  a  voluble  retail  talker, 
whose  language  is  exuberant  but  not  exact,  and  to  whom  we 
should  never  think  of  referring  for  precise  information,  or  for 
well-digested  thought  and  experience.  His  argument  contin- 
ually slides  into  wholesale  assertion  and  vague  declamation, 
and  in  his  love  of  ornament  he  frequently  becomes  tawdry. 
For  example,  he  tells  us  (Apoc.  Sketches,  p.  265)  that 
"  Botany  weaves  around  the  cross  her  amaranthine  garlands; 
and  Newton  comes  from  his  starry  home — Linnaeus  from  his 
flowery  resting-place — and  Werner  and  Hutton  from  their  sub- 
terranean graves  at  the  voice  of  Chalmers,  to  acknowledge 
that  all  they  learned  and  elicited  in  their  respective  provinces 
has  only  served  to  show  more  clearly  that  Jesus  of  Nazareth 
is  enthroned  on  the  riches  of  the  universe."  And  so  prosaic 
an  injunction  to  his  hearers  as  that  they  should  choose  a 
residence  within  an  easy  distance  of  church,  is  magnificently 
draped  by  him  as  an  exhortation  to  prefer  a  house  "  that  basks 
in  the  sunshine  of  the  countenance  of  God."  Like  all  preach- 
ers of  his  class,  he  is  more  fertile  in  imaginative  paraphrase 
than  in  close  exposition,  and  in  this  way  he  gives  us  some 
remarkable  fragments  of  what  we  may  call  the  romance  of 
Scripture,  rilling  up  the  outline  of  the  record  with  an  elaborate 
coloring  quite  undreamed  of  by  more  literal  minds.  The  ser- 
pent, he  informs  us,  said  to  Eve,  "Can  it  be  so?  Surely  you 
are  mistaken,  that  God  hath  said  you  shall  die,  a  creature  so 
fair,  so  lovely,  so  beautiful.  It  is  impossible.  The  laws  of 


DR.    GUMMING.  97 

'nature  and  physical  science  tell  you  that  my  interpretation  is 
correct;  you  shall  not  die.  I  can  tell  you  by  my  own  expe- 
rience as  an  angel  that  you  shall  be  as  gods,  knowing  good  and 
evil." — (Apoc.  Sketches,  p.  294.)  Again,  according  to  Dr. 
Gumming,  Abel  had  so  clear  an  idea  of  the  Incarnation  and 
Atonement,  that  when  he  offered  his  sacrifice  ''  he  must  have 
said,  'I  feel  myself  a  guilty  sinner,  and  that  in  myself  I  can- 
not meet  Thee  alive;  I  lay  on  Thine  altar  this  victim,  and 
I  shed  its  blood  as  my  testimony  that  mine  should  be  shed; 
and  I  look  for  forgiveness  and  undeserved  mercy  through  Him 
who  is  to  bruise  the  serpent's  head,  and  whose  atonement  this 
typifies.'  " — (Occas.  Disc.,  vol.  i.  p.  23.)  Indeed  his  produc- 
tions are  essentially  ephemeral;  he  is  essentially  a  journalist, 
who  writes  sermons  instead  of  leading  articles,  who,  instead 
of  venting  diatribes  against  her  Majesty's  Ministers,  directs 
his  power  of  invective  against  Cardinal  Wiseman  and  the 
Puseyites, — instead  of  declaiming  on  public  spirit,  perorates 
on  the  "  glory  of  God. "  We  fancy  he  is  called,  in  the  more 
refined  evangelical  circles,  an  "  intellectual  preacher  " ;  by  the 
plainer  sort  of  Christians,  a  "  flowery  preacher  " ;  and  we  are 
inclined  to  think  that  the  more  spiritually  minded  class  of 
believers,  who  look  with  greater  anxiety  for  the  kingdom  of 
God  within  them  than  for  the  visible  advent  of  Christ  in  1864, 
will  be  likely  to  find  Dr.  Gumming' s  declamatory  flights  and 
historico-prophetical  exercitations  as  little  better  than  "  clouts 
o'  cauld  parritch." 

Such  is  our  general  impression  from  his  writings  after  an 
attentive  perusal.  There  are  some  particular  characteristics 
which  we  shall  consider  more  closely,  but  in  doing  so  we  must 
be  understood  as  altogether  declining  any  doctrinal  discussion. 
We  have  no  intention  to  consider  the  grounds  of  Dr.  Gumming' s 
dogmatic  system,  to  examine  the  principles  of  his  prophetic 
exegesis,  or  to  question  his  opinion  concerning  the  little  horn, 
the  river  Euphrates,  or  the  seven  vials.  We  identify  our- 
selves with  no  one  of  the  bodies  whom  he  regards  it  as  his 
special  mission  to  attack :  not  giving  adhesion  either  to  Ro- 
manism, to  Puseyism,  or  to  that  anomalous  combination  of 
opinions  which  he  introduces  to  us  under  the  name  of  infidel- 
ity. It  is  simply  as  spectators  that  we  criticise  Dr.  Gumming' s 
7 


98  EVANGELICAL  TEACHING: 

mode  of  warfare :  as  spectators  concerned  less  with  what  he 
holds  to  be  Christian  truth  than  with  his  manner  of  enforcing 
that  truth,  less  with  the  doctrines  he  teaches  than  with  the 
moral  spirit  and  tendencies  of  his  teaching. 

One  of  the  most  striking  characteristics  of  Dr.  Gumming' s 
writings  is  unscrupulosity  of  statement.  His  motto  apparently 
is,  Christianitatem,  quocunque  modo,  Christianitatem  ;  and  the 
only  system  he  includes  under  the  term  Christianity  is  Calvin- 
istic  Protestantism.  Experience  has  so  long  shown  that  the 
human  brain  is  a  congenial  nidus  for  inconsistent  beliefs,  that 
we  do  not  pause  to  inquire  how  Dr.  Gumming,  who  attributes 
the  conversion  of  the  unbelieving  to  the  Divine  Spirit,  can 
think  it  necessary  to  co-operate  with  that  Spirit  by  argument- 
ative white  lies.  Nor  do  we  for  a  moment  impugn  the  gen- 
uineness of  his  zeal  for  Christianity,  or  the  sincerity  of  his 
conviction  that  the  doctrines  he  preaches  are  necessary  to  sal- 
vation; on  the  contrary,  we  regard  the  flagrant  un veracity 
found  on  his  pages  as  an  indirect  result  of  that  conviction — as 
a  result,  namely,  of  the  intellectual  and  moral  distortion  of 
view  which  is  inevitably  produced  by  assigning  to  dogmas, 
based  on  a  very  complex  structure  of  evidence,  the  place  and 
authority  of  first  truths.  A  distinct  appreciation  of  the  value 
of  evidence — in  other  words,  the  intellectual  perception  of 
truth — is  more  closely  allied  to  truthfulness  of  statement, 
or  the  moral  quality  of  veracity,  than  is  generally  admitted. 
That  highest  moral  habit,  the  constant  preference  of  truth, 
both  theoretically  and  practically,  pre-eminently  demands  the 
co-operation  of  the  intellect  with  the  impulses — as  is  indicated 
by  the  fact  that  it  is  only  found  in  anything  like  completeness 
in  the  highest  class  of  minds.  And  it  is  commonly  seen  that, 
in  proportion  as  religious  sects  believe  themselves  to  be  guided 
by  direct  inspiration  rather  than  by  a  spontaneous  exertion 
of  their  faculties,  their  sense  of  truthfulness  is  misty  and 
confused.  No  one  can  have  talked  to  the  more  enthusiastic 
Methodists  and  listened  to  their  stories  of  miracles  without 
perceiving  that  they  require  no  other  passport  to  a  statement 
than  that  it  accords  with  their  wishes  and  their  general  con- 
ception of  God's  dealings;  nay,  they  regard  as  a  symptom 
of  sinful  scepticism  an  inquiry  into  the  evidence  for  a  story 


DR.   GUMMING.  9d 

which  they  think  unquestionably  tends  to  the  glory  of  God, 
and  in  retailing  such  stories,  new  particulars,  further  tending 
to  His  glory,  are  "  borne  in "  upon  their  minds.  Now,  Dr. 
Gumming,  as  we  have  said,  is  no  enthusiastic  pietist :  within 
a  certain  circle — within  the  mill  of  evangelical  orthodoxy — 
his  intellect  is  perpetually  at  work;  but  that  principle  of 
sophistication  which  our  friends  the  Methodists  derive  from 
the  predominance  of  their  pietistic  feelings,  is  involved  for 
him  in  the  doctrine  of  verbal  inspiration ;  what  is  for  them  a 
state  of  emotion  submerging  the  intellect,  is  with  him  a 
formula  imprisoning  the  intellect,  depriving  it  of  its  proper 
function — the  free  search  for  truth — and  making  it  the  mere 
servant-of -all- work  to  a  foregone  conclusion.  Minds  fettered 
by  this  doctrine  no  longer  inquire  concerning  a  proposition 
whether  it  is  attested  by  sufficient  evidence,  but  whether  it 
accords  with  Scripture;  they  do  not  search  for  facts,  as  such, 
but  for  facts  that  will  bear  out  their  doctrine.  They  become 
accustomed  to  reject  the  more  direct  evidence  in  favor  of  the 
less  direct,  and  where  adverse  evidence  reaches  demonstra- 
tion they  must  resort  to  devices  and  expedients  in  order  to 
explain  away  contradiction.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  this  men- 
tal habit  blunts  not  only  the  perception  of  truth,  but  the  sense 
of  truthfulness,  and  that  the  man  whose  faith  drives  him  into 
fallacies,  treads  close  upon  the  precipice  of  falsehood. 

We  have  entered  into  this  digression  for  the  sake  of  miti- 
gating the  inference  that  is  likely  to  be  drawn  from  that  char- 
acteristic of  Dr.  Cumming's  works  to  whkJh  we  have  pointed. 
He  is  much  in  the  same  intellectual  condition  as  that  professor 
of  Padua,  who,  in  order  to  disprove  Galileo's  discovery  of 
Jupiter's  satellites,  urged  that  as  there  were  only  seven  metals 
there  could  not  be  more  than  seven  planets — a  mental  condi- 
tion scarcely  compatible  with  candor.  And  we  may  well  sup- 
pose that  if  the  professor  had  held  the  belief  in  seven  planets, 
and  no  more,  to  be  a  necessary  condition  of  salvation,  his 
mental  vision  would  have  been  so  dazed  that  even  if  he  had 
consented  to  look  through  Galileo's  telescope,  his  eyes  would 
have  reported  in  accordance  with  his  inward  alarms  rather 
than  with  the  external  fact.  So  long  as  a  belief  in  proposi- 
tions is  regarded  as  indispensable  to  salvation,  the  pursuit  of 


100  EVANGELICAL  TEACHING: 

truth  as  such  is  not  possible,  any  more  than  it  is  possible  for 
a  man  who  is  swimming  for  his  life  to  make  meteorological 
observations  on  the  storm  which  threatens  to  overwhelm  him. 
The  sense  of  alarm  and  haste,  the  anxiety  for  personal  safety, 
which  Dr.  Gumming  insists  upon  as  the  proper  religious  atti- 
tude, unmans  the  nature,  and  allows  no  thorough,  calm  think- 
ing, no  truly  noble,  disinterested  feeling.  Hence,  we  by  no 
means  suspect  that  the  unscrupulosity  of  statement  with  which 
we  charge  Dr.  Gumming,  extends  beyond  the  sphere  of  his 
theological  prejudices :  religion  apart,  he  probably  appreciates 
and  practises  veracity. 

A  grave  general  accusation  must  be  supported  by  details, 
and  in  adducing  these,  we  purposely  select  the  most  obvious 
cases  of  misrepresentation — such  as  require  no  argument  to 
expose  them,  but  can  be  perceived  at  a  glance.  Among  Dr. 
Gumming' s  numerous  books,  one  of  the  most  notable  for  un- 
scrupulosity of  statement  is  the  "  Manual  of  Christian  Evi- 
dences," written,  as  he  tells  us  in  his  Preface,  not  to  give  the 
deepest  solutions  of  the  difficulties  in  question,  -but  to  furnish 
Scripture-readers,  city  missionaries,  and  Sunday-school  teach- 
ers with  a  "  ready  reply  "  to  sceptical  arguments.  This  an- 
nouncement that  readiness  was  the  chief  quality  sought  for 
in  the  solutions  here  given,  modifies  our  inference  from  the 
other  qualities  which  those  solutions  present;  and  it  is  but 
fair  to  presume,  that  when  the  Christian  disputant  is  not  in 
a  hurry,  Dr.  Gumming  would  recommend  replies  less  ready 
and  more  veracious.  Here  is  an  example  of  what  in  another 
place '  he  tells  his  readers  is  "  change  in  their  pocket,  .  .  . 
a  little  ready  argument  which  they  can  employ,  and  therewith 
answer  a  fool  according  to  his  folly."  From  the  nature  of 
this  argumentative  small-coin,  we  are  inclined  to  think  Dr. 
Camming  understands  answering  a  fool  according  to  his  folly 
to  mean,  giving  him  a  foolish  answer.  We  quote  from  the 
"Manual  of  Christian  Evidences,"  p.  62:— 

"Some  of  the  gods  which  the  heathen  worshipped  were  among  the 
greatest  monsters  that  ever  walked  the  earth.  Mercury  was  a  thief ;  and 
because  he  was  an  expert  thief  he  was  enrolled  among  the  gods.  Bacchus 
was  a  mere  sensualist  and  drunkard ;  and  therefore  he  was  enrolled 

1  Lect.  on  Daniel,  p.  6. 


DR.   GUMMING.  101 

among  the  gods.  Venus  was  a  dissipated  and  abandoned  courtesan ; 
and  therefore  she  was  enrolled  among  the  goddesses.  Mars  was  a  sav- 
age, that  gloried  in  battle  and  in  blood ;  and  therefore  he  was  deified 
and  enrolled  among  the  gods." 

Does  Dr.  Gumming  believe  the  purport  of  these  sentences? 
If  so,  this  passage  is  worth  handing  down  as  his  theory  of  the 
Greek  myth — as  a  specimen  of  the  astounding  ignorance  which 
was  possible  in  a  metropolitan  preacher  A.D.  1854.  And  if 
he  does  not  believe  them  .  .  .  The  inference  must  then  be, 
that  he  thinks  delicate  veracity  about  the  ancient  Greeks  is 
not  a  Christian  virtue,  but  only  a  "  splendid  sin  "  of  the  unre- 
generate.  This  inference  is  rendered  the  more  probable  by 
our  finding,  a  little  further  on,  that  he  is  not  more  scrupulous 
about  the  moderns,  if  they  come  under  his  definition  of  "  Infi- 
dels. "  But  the  passage  we  are  about  to  quote  in  proof  of  this 
has  a  worse  quality  than  its  discrepancy  with  fact.  Who 
that  has  a  spark  of  generous  feeling,  that  rejoices  in  the  pres- 
ence of  good  in  a  fellow-being,  has  not  dwelt  with  pleasure  on 
the  thought  that  Lord  Byron's  unhappy  career  was  ennobled 
and  purified  toward  its  close  by  a  high  and  sympathetic  pur- 
pose, by  honest  and  energetic  efforts  for  his  fellow-men?  Who 
has  not  read  with  deep  emotion  those  last  pathetic  lines,  beau- 
tiful as  the  after-glow  of  sunset,  in  which  love  and  resignation 
are  mingled  with  something  of  a  melancholy  heroism?  Who 
has  not  lingered  with  compassion  over  the  dying  scene  at 
Missolonghi — the  sufferer's  inability  to  make  his  farewell 
messages  of  love  intelligible,  and  the  last  long  hours  of  silent 
pain?  Yet  for  the  sake  of  furnishing  his  disciples  with  a 
"ready  reply,"  Dr.  Gumming  can  prevail  on  himself  to  inocu- 
late them  with  a  bad-spirited  falsity  like  the  following : — 

"We  have  one  striking  exhibition  of  an  infidel's  brightest  thoughts,  in 
some  lines  written  in  his  dying  moments  by  a  man,  gifted  with  great 
genius,  capable  of  prodigious  intellectual  prowess,  but  of  worthless 
principle,  and  yet  more  worthless  practices— I  mean  the  celebrated  Lord 
Byron.  He  says, — 

"'Though  gay  companions  o'er  the  bowl 

Dispel  awhile  the  sense  of  ill, 
Though  pleasure  fills  the  maddening  soul, 
The  heart — the  heart  is  lonely  still. 


102  EVANGELICAL  TEACHING: 

"'Ay,  but  to  die,  and  go,  alas ! 

Where  all  have  gone  and  all  must  go ; 
To  be  the  Nothing  that  I  was, 
Ere  born  to  life  and  living  woe  ! 

"'Count  o'er  the  joys  thine  hours  have  seen, 
Count  o'er  thy  days  from  anguish  free, 
And  know,  whatever  thou  hast  been, 
'Tis  something  better  not  to  be. 

"'Nay,  for  myself,  so  dark  my  fate 

Through  every  turn  of  life  hath  been, 
Man  and  the  world  so  much  I  hate, 
I  care  not  when  I  quit  the  scene. '  " 

It  is  difficult  to  suppose  that  Dr.  Gumming  can  have  been 
so  grossly  imposed  upon — that  he  can  be  so  ill  informed  as 
really  to  believe  that  these  lines  were  "written"  by  Lord 
Byron  in  his  dying  moments;  but,  allowing  him  the  full 
benefit  of  that  possibility,  how  shall  we  explain  his  introduc- 
tion of  this  feebly  rabid  doggerel  as  "  an  infidel's  brightest 
thoughts  "  ? 

In  marshalling  the  evidences  of  Christianity,  Dr.  Gumming 
directs  most  of  his  arguments  against  opinions  that  are  either 
totally  imaginary,  or  that  belong  to  the  past  rather  than  to 
the  present;  while  he  entirely  fails  to  meet  the  difficulties 
actually  felt  and  urged  by  those  who  are  unable  to  accept 
Revelation.  There  can  hardly  be  a  stronger  proof  of  miscon- 
ception as  to  the  character  of  free-thinking  in  the  present  day 
than  the  recommendation  of  Leland's  "  Short  and  Easy  Method 
with  the  Deists," — a  method  which  is  unquestionably  short 
and  easy  for  preachers  disinclined  to  consider  their  stereotyped 
modes  of  thinking  and  arguing,  but  which  has  quite  ceased  to 
realize  those  epithets  in  the  conversion  of  Deists.  Yet  Dr. 
Gumming  not  only  recommends  this  book,  but  takes  the  trou- 
ble himself  to  write  a  feebler  version  of  its  arguments.  For 
example,  on  the  question  of  the  genuineness  and  authenticity 
of  the  New  Testament  writings,  he  says : — 

"If  therefore,  at  a  period  long  subsequent  to  the  death  of  Christ,  a 
number  of  men  had  appeared  in  the  world,  drawn  up  a  book  which  they 
christened  by  the  name  of  Holy  Scripture,  and  recorded  these  things 
•which  appear  in  it  as  facts  when  they  were  only  the  fancies  of  their  own 


DR.   GUMMING.  103 

imagination,  surely  the  Jews  would  have  instantly  reclaimed  that  no 
such  events  transpired,  that  no  such  person  as  Jesus  Christ  appeared  in 
their  capital,  and  that  their  crucifixion  of  Him,  and  their  alleged  evil 
treatment  of  His  apostles,  were  mere  fictions."1 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  that,  in  such  argument  as 
this,  Dr.  Gumming  is  beating  the  air.  He  is  meeting  a  hypoth- 
esis which  no  one  holds,  and  totally  missing  the  real  ques- 
tion. The  only  type  of  "  infidel "  whose  existence  Dr.  Gum- 
ming recognizes  is  that  fossil  personage  who  "  calls  the  Bible 
a  lie  and  a  forgery. "  He  seems  to  be  ignorant — or  he  chooses 
to  ignore  the  fact — that  there  is  a  large  body  of  eminently  in- 
structed and  earnest  men  who  regard  the  Hebrew  and  Chris- 
tian Scriptures  as  a  series  of  historical  documents,  to  be  dealt 
with  according  to  the  rules  of  historical  criticism ;  and  that 
an  equally  large  number  of  men,  who  are  not  historical  critics, 
find  the  dogmatic  scheme  built  on  the  letter  of  the  Scriptures 
opposed  to  their  profoundest  moral  convictions.  Dr.  Cum- 
ming's  infidel  is  a  man  who,  because  his  life  is  vicious,  tries 
to  convince  himself  that  there  is  no  God,  and  that  Christian- 
ity is  an  imposture,  but  who  is  all  the  while  secretly  conscious 
that  he  is  opposing  the  truth,  and  cannot  help  "  letting  out " 
admissions  "that  the  Bible  is  the  Book  of  God."  We  are 
favored  with  the  following  "  Creed  of  the  Infidel " : — • 

"I  believe  that  there  is  no  God,  but  that  matter  is  God,  and  God  is 
matter ;  and  that  it  is  no  matter  whether  there  is  any  God  or  not.  I 
believe  also  that  the  world  was  not  made,  but  that  the  world  made  itself 
or  that  it  had  no  beginning,  and  that  it  will  last  forever.  I  believe  that 
man  is  a  beast ;  that  the  soul  is  the  body,  and  that  the  body  is  the  soul ; 
and  that  after  death  there  is  neither  body  nor  soul.  I  believe  that  there 
is  no  religion,  that  natural  religion  is  the  only  religion,  and  all  religion 
unnatural.  I  believe  not  in  Moses ;  I  believe  in  the  first  philosophers. 
I  believe  not  in  the  evangelists ;  I  believe  in  Chubb,  Collins,  Toland, 
Tindal,  and  Hobbes.  I  believe  in  Lord  Bolingbroke,  and  I  believe  not 
in  St.  Paul.  I  believe  not  in  revelation  ;  I  believe  in  tradition;  I  believe 
in  the  Talmud:  1  believe  in  the  Koran;  I  believe  not  in  the  Bible.  I  be- 
lieve in  Socrates;  I  believe  in  Confucius  ;  I  believe  in  Mahomet;  I  be- 
lieve not  in  Christ  And  lastly,  I  believe  in  all  unbelief." 

The  intellectual  and  moral  monster  whose  creed  is  this  com- 
plex web  of  contradictions  is,  moreover,  according  to  Dr.  Com- 

!Man.  of  Ev.,  p.  81. 


104  EVANGELICAL  TEACHING 

ming,  a  being  who  unites  much  simplicity  and  imbecility  with 
his  Satanic  hardihood, — much  tenderness  of  conscience  with 
his  obdurate  vice.  Hear  the  "  proof  "  : — 

"I  once  met  with  an  acute  and  enlightened  infidel,  with  whom  I 
reasoned  day  after  day,  and  for  hours  together  ;  I  submitted  to  him  the 
internal,  the  external,  and  the  experimental  evidences,  but  made  no  im- 
pression on  his  scorn  and  unbelief.  At  length  I  entertained  a  suspicion 
that  there  was  something  morally,  rather  than  intellectually  wrong,  and 
that  the  bias  was  not  in  the  intellect,  but  in  the  heart ;  one  day  there- 
fore I  said  to  him — '  I  must  now  state  my  conviction,  and  you  may  call 
me  uncharitable,  but  duty  compels  me:  you  are  living  in  some  known 
and  gross  sin.'  The  man's  countenance  became  pale;  he  bowed  and  left 
me." — Man.  of  Evidences,  p.  254. 

Here  we  have  the  remarkable  psychological  phenomenon  of 
an  "  acute  and  enlightened  "  man  who,  deliberately  purposing 
to  indulge  in  a  favorite  sin,  and  regarding  the  Gospel  with 
scorn  and  unbelief,  is  nevertheless  so  much  more  scrupulous 
than  the  majority  of  Christians,  that  he  cannot  "  embrace  sin 
and  the  Gospel  simultaneously  " ;  who  is  so  alarmed  at  the 
Gospel  in  which  he  does  not  believe,  that  he  cannot  be  easy 
without  trying  to  crush  it;  whose  acuteness  and  enlightenment 
suggest  to  him,  as  a  means  of  crushing  the  Gospel,  to  argue 
from  day  to  day  with  Dr.  Gumming;  and  who  is  withal  so 
naive  that  he  is  taken  by  surprise  when  Dr.  Gumming,  failing 
in  argument,  resorts  to  accusation,  and  so  tender  in  conscience 
that,  at  the  mention  of  his  sin,  he  turns  pale  and  leaves  the 
spot.  If  there  be  any  human  mind  in  existence  capable  of 
holding  Dr.  Cumming's  "  Creed  of  the  Infidel,"  of  at  the  same 
time  believing  in  tradition  and  "believing  in  all  unbelief,"  it 
must  be  the  mind  of  the  infidel  just  described,  for  whose  ex- 
istence we  have  Dr.  Cumming's  ex  officiowoTd  as  a  theologian; 
and  to  theologians  we  may  apply  what  Sancho  Panza  says  of 
the  bachelors  of  Salamanca,  that  they  never  tell  lies — except 
when  it  suits  their  purpose. 

The  total  absence  from  Dr.  Cumming's  theological  mind  of 
any  demarcation  between  fact  and  rhetoric  is  exhibited  in  an- 
other passage,  where  he  adopts  the  dramatic  form : — 

"Ask  the  peasant  on  the  hills— and  I  have  asked  amid  the  mountains 
Of  Braemar  and  Deeside — '  How  do  you  know  that  this  book  is  divine, 


DR.   CUMMINQ.  105 

and  that  the  religion  you  profess  is  true?  You  never  read  Paley?  * 
4  No,  I  never  heard  of  him. '  '  You  have  never  read  Butler?  '  '  No,  I 
have  never  heard  of  him. '  '  Nor  Chalmers?  '  '  No,  I  do  not  know  him. ' 
4  You  have  never  read  any  books  on  evidence?  '  '  No,  I  have  read  no  such 
books. '  '  Then,  how  do  you  know  this  book  is  true?  '  '  Know  it !  Tell 
me  that  the  Dee,  the  Cluuie,  and  the  Garrawalt,  the  streams  at  my  feet, 
do  not  run ;  that  the  winds  do  not  sigh  amid  the  gorges  of  these  blue 
hills  ;  that  the  sun  does  not  kindle  the  peaks  of  Loch-na-Gar,— tell  me 
my  heart  does  not  beat,  and  I  will  believe  you  ;  but  do  not  tell  me  the 
Bible  is  not  divine.  I  have  found  its  truth  illuminating  my  footsteps  ; 
its  consolations  sustaining  my  heart.  May  my  tongue  cleave  to  my 
mouth's  roof,  and  my  right  hand  forget  its  cunning,  if  I  ever  deny  what 
is  my  deepest  inner  experience,  that  this  blessed  book  is  the  Book  of 
God. '  "—Church  before  the  Flood,  p.  35. 

Dr.  Gumming  is  so  slippery  and  lax  in  his  mode  of  presen- 
tation, that  we  find  it  impossible  to  gather  whether  he  means 
to  assert,  that  this  is  what  a  peasant  on  the  mountains  of 
Braemar  did  say,  or  that  it  is  what  such  a  peasant  would  say : 
in  the  one  case,  the  passage  may  be  taken  as  a  measure  of  his 
truthfulness ;  in  the  other,  of  his  judgment. 

His  own  faith,  apparently,  has  not  been  altogether  intuitive, 
like  that  of  his  rhetorical  peasant,  for  he  tells  us  (Apoc. 
Sketches,  p.  405)  that  he  has  himself  experienced  what  it  is 
to  have  religious  doubts.  "  I  was  tainted  while  at  the  Uni- 
versity by  this  spirit  of  scepticism.  I  thought  Christianity 
might  not  be  true.  The  very  possibility  of  its  being  true  was 
the  thought  I  felt  I  must  meet  and  settle.  Conscience  could 
give  me  no  peace  till  I  had  settled  it.  I  read,  and  I  have 
read  from  that  day,  for  fourteen  or  fifteen  years,  till  this,  and 
now  I  am  as  convinced,  upon  the  clearest  evidence,  that  this 
book  is  the  Book  of  God,  as  that  I  now  address  you."  This 
experience,  however,  instead  of  impressing  on  him  the  fact 
that  doubt  may  be  the  stamp  of  a  truth-loving  mind — that 
sunt  quibus  non  credidisse  honor  est,  et  fidei  futurce  pignus — 
seems  to  have  produced  precisely  the  contrary  effect.  It  has 
not  enabled  him  even  to  conceive  the  condition  of  a  mind 
"perplext  in  faith  but  pure  in  deed,"  craving  light,  yearning 
for  a  faith  that  will  harmonize  and  cherish  its  highest  powers 
and  aspirations,  but  unable  to  find  that  faith  in  dogmatic 
Christianity.  His  own  doubts  apparently  were  of  a  different 
kind.  Nowhere  iu  his  pages  have  we  found  a  humble,  cap,- 


106  EVANGELICAL  TEACHING: 

did,  sympathetic  attempt  to  meet  the  difficulties  that  may  be 
felt  by  an  ingenuous  mind.  Everywhere  he  supposes  .that  the 
doubter  is  hardened,  conceited,  consciously  shutting  his  eyes 
to  the  light — a  fool  who  is  to  be  answered  according  to  his 
folly — that  is,  with  ready  replies  made  up  of  reckless  asser- 
tions, of  apocryphal  anecdotes,  and,  where  other  resources 
fail,  of  vituperative  imputations.  As  to  the  reading  which  he 
has  prosecuted  for  fifteen  years — either  it  has  left  him  totally 
ignorant  of  the  relation  which  his  own  religious  creed  bears  to 
the  criticism  and  philosophy  of  the  nineteenth  century,  or  he 
systematically  blinks  that  criticism  arid  that  philosophy;  and 
instead  of  honestly  and  seriously  endeavoring  to  meet  and 
solve  what  he  knows  to  be  the  real  difficulties,  contents  him- 
self with  setting  up  popinjays  to  shoot  at,  for  the  sake  of 
confirming  the  ignorance  and  winning  the  cheap  admiration 
of  his  evangelical  hearers  and  readers.  Like  the  Catholic 
preacher  who,  after  throwing  down  his  cap  and  apostrophizing 
it  as  Luther,  turned  to  his  audience  and  said,  "  You  see  this 
heretical  fellow  has  not  a  word  to  say  for  himself, "  Dr.  Gum- 
ming, having  drawn  his  ugly  portrait  of  the  infidel,  and  put 
arguments  of  a  convenient  quality  into  his  mouth,  finds  a 
"  short  and  easy  method  "  of  confounding  this  "  croaking  frog. " 
In  his  treatment  of  infidels,  we  imagine  he  is  guided  by  a 
mental  process  which  may  be  expressed  in  the  following  syllo- 
gism :  Whatever  tends  to  the  glory  of  God  is  true ;  it  is  for 
the  glory  of  God  that  infidels  should  be  as  bad  as  possible; 
therefore,  whatever  tends  to  show  that  infidels  are  as  bad  as 
possible  is  true.  All  infidels,  he  tells  us,  have  been  men  of 
"gross  and  licentious  lives."  Is  there  not  some  well-known 
unbeliever — David  Hume,  for  example — of  whom  even  Dr. 
Gumming' a  readers  may  have  heard  as  an  exception?  No  mat- 
ter. Some  one  suspected  that  he  was  not  an  exception ;  and 
as  that  suspicion  tends  to  the  glory  of  God,  it  is  one  for  a 
Christian  to  entertain. — (See  Man.  of  Ev.,  p.  73.)  If  we 
were  unable  to  imagine  this  kind  of  self-sophistication,  we 
should  be  obliged  to  suppose  that,  relying  on  the  ignorance 
of  his  evangelical  disciples,  he  fed  them  with  direct  and  con- 
scious falsehoods.  "Voltaire,"  he  informs  them,  "declares 
there  is  no  God  "  j  he  was  "  an  antitheist — that  is,  one  who 


DR.   GUMMING.  10T 

deliberately  and  avowedly  opposed  and  hated  God ;  who  swore 
in  his  blasphemy  that  he  would  dethrone  Him  " ;  and  "  advo- 
cated the  very  depths  of  the  lowest  sensuality."  With  regard 
to  many  statements  of  a  similar  kind,  equally  at  variance  with 
truth,  in  Dr.  Gumming' s  volumes,  we  presume  that  he  has 
been  misled  by  hearsay  or  by  the  second-hand  character  of 
his  acquaintance  with  free-thinking  literature.  An  evangelical 
preacher  is  not  obliged  to  be  well  read.  Here,  however,  is  a 
case  which  the  extremest  supposition  of  educated  ignorance 
will  not  reach.  Even  books  of  "  evidences  "  quote  from  Vol- 
taire the  line — 

"Si  Dieu  n'existait  pas,  il  faudrait  1'inventer"  ; 

even  persons  fed  on  the  mere  whey  and  buttermilk  of  litera- 
ture must  know  that  in  philosophy  Voltaire  was  nothing  if 
not  a  theist — must  know  that  he  wrote  not  against  God,  but 
against  Jehovah,  the  God  of  the  Jews,  whom  he  believed  to 
be  a  false  God — must  know  that  to  say  Voltaire  was  an  athe- 
ist on  this  ground  is  as  absurd  as  to  say  that  a  Jacobite  op- 
posed hereditary  monarchy  because  he  declared  the  Brunswick 
family  had  no  title  to  the  throne.  That  Dr.  Gumming  should 
repeat  the  vulgar  fables  about  Voltaire's  death  is  merely  what 
we  might  expect  from  the  specimens  we  have  seen  of  his  illus- 
trative stories.  A  man  whose  accounts  of  his  own  experience 
are  apocryphal  is  not  likely  to  put  borrowed  narratives  to  any 
severe  test. 

The  alliance  between  intellectual  and  moral  perversion  is 
strikingly  typified  by  the  way  in  which  he  alternates  from  the 
unveracious  to  the  absurd,  from  misrepresentation  to  contra- 
diction. Side  by  side  with  the  adduction  of  "  facts  "  such  as 
those  we  have  quoted,  we  find  him  arguing  on  one  page  that 
the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity  was  too  grand  to  have  been  con- 
ceived by  man,  and  was  therefore  Divine  j  and  on  another 
page,  that  the  Incarnation  had  been  preconceived  by  man,  and 
is  therefore  to  be  accepted  as  Divine.  But  we  are  less  con- 
cerned with  the  fallacy  of  his  "  ready  replies  "  than  with  their 
falsity ;  and  even  of  this  we  can  only  afford  space  for  a  very 
few  specimens.  Here  is  one :  "  There  is  a  thousand  times  more 
proof  that  the  Gospel  of  John  was  written  by  him  than  there 


108  EVANGELICAL  TEACHING: 

is  that  the  ^Avd,3a<Tt?  was  written  by  Xenophon,  or  the  'Ars 
Poetica'  by  Horace."  If  Dr.  Gumming  had  chosen  Plato's 
Epistles  or  Anacreon's  Poems,  instead  of  the  "  Anabasis  "  or 
the  "  Ars  Poetica, "  he  would  have  reduced  the  extent  of  the 
falsehood,  and  would  have  furnished  a  ready  reply,  which 
would  have  been  equally  effective  with  his  Sunday-school 
teachers  and  their  disputants.  Hence  we  conclude  this  prod- 
igality of  niisstatement,  this  exuberance  of  mendacity,  is  an 
effervescence  of  zeal  in  major  em  gloriam  Dei.  Elsewhere  he 
tells  us  that  "  the  idea  of  the  author  of  the  '  Vestiges '  is,  that 
man  is  the  development  of  a  monkey,  that  the  monkey  is  the 
embryo  man ;  so  that  if  you  keep  a  baboon  long  enough,  it  will 
develop  itself  into  a  man."  How  well  Dr.  Gumming  has  qual- 
ified himself  to  judge  of  the  ideas  in  "  that  very  unphilosophi- 
cal  book,"  as  he  pronounces  it,  may  be  inferred  from  the  fact 
that  he  implies  the  author  of  the  "  Vestiges  "  to  have  originated 
the  nebular  hypothesis. 

In  the  volume  from  which  the  last  extract  is  taken,  even 
the  hardihood  of  assertion  is  surpassed  by  the  suicidal  charac- 
ter of  the  argument.  It  is  called  "  The  Church  before  the 
Flood,"  and  is  devoted  chiefly  to  the  adjustment  of  the  ques- 
tion between  the  Bible  and  Geology.  Keeping  within  the 
limits  we  have  prescribed  to  ourselves,  we  do  not  enter  into  the 
matter  of  this  discussion ;  we  merely  pause  a  little  over  the 
volume  in  order  to  point  out  Dr.  Cumming's  mode  of  treating 
the  question.  He  first  tells  us  that  "  the  Bible  has  not  a  single 
scientific  error  in  it " ;  that  "  its  slightest  intimations  of  scientific 
principles  or  natural  phenomena  have  in  every  instance  been  de- 
monstrated to  be  exactly  and  strictly  true  "  ;  and  he  asks : — 

"How  is  it  that  Moses,  with  no  greater  education  than  the  Hindoo  or 
the  ancient  philosopher,  has  written  his  book,  touching  science  at  a 
thousand  points,  so  accurately,  that  scientific  research  has  discovered  no 
flaws  in  it;  and  yet  in  those  investigations  which  have  taken  place  in 
more  recent  centuries,  it  has  not  been  shown  that  he  has  committed  one 
single  error,  or  made  one  solitary  assertion  which  can  be  proved  by  the 
inaturest  science,  or  by  the  most  eagle-eyed  philosopher,  to  be  incorrect, 
scientifically  or  historically?" 

According  to  this,  the  relation  of  the  Bible  to  science  should 
be  one  of  the  strong  points  of  apologists  foi  revelation :  the 


DR.  CtlMMttttf.  109 

scientific  accuracy  of  Moses  should  stand  at  the  head  of  their 
evidences ;  and  they  might  urge  with  some  cogency,  that  since 
Aristotle,  who  devoted  himself  to  science,  and  lived  many 
ages  after  Moses,  does  little  else  than  e"rr  ingeniously,  this 
fact,  that  the  Jewish  lawgiver,  though  touching  science  at  a 
thousand  points,  has  written  nothing  that  has  not  been  "  de- 
monstrated to  be  exactly  and  strictly  true,"  is  an  irrefragable 
proof  of  his  having  derived  his  knowledge  from  a  supernatural 
source.  How  does  it  happen,  then,  that  Dr.  Gumming  for- 
sakes this  strong  position?  How  is  it  that  we  find  him,  some 
pages  further  on,  engaged  in  reconciling  Genesis  with  the  dis- 
coveries of  science,  by  means  of  imaginative  hypotheses  and 
feats  of  "  interpretation  "  ?  Surely  that  which  has  been  de- 
monstrated to  be  exactly  and  strictly  true  does  not  require  hy- 
pothesis and  critical '  argument,  in  order  to  show  that  it  may 
possibly  agree  with  those  very  discoveries  by  means  of  which 
its  exact  and  strict  truth  has  been  demonstrated.  And  why 
should  Dr.  Gumming  suppose,  as  we  shall  presently  find  him 
supposing,  that  men  of  science  hesitate  to  accept  the  Bible 
because  it  appears  to  contradict  their  discoveries?  By  his 
own  statement,  that  appearance  of  contradiction  does  not 
exist;  on  the  contrary,  it  has  been  demonstrated  that  the 
Bible  precisely  agrees  with  their  discoveries.  Perhaps,  how- 
ever, in  saying  of  the  Bible  that  its  "  slightest  intimations  of 
scientific  principles  or  natural  phenomena  have  in  every  in- 
stance been  demonstrated  to  be  exactly  and  strictly  true,"  Dr. 
Gumming  merely  means  to  imply  that  theologians  have  found 
out  a  way  of  explaining  the  Biblical  text  so  that  it  no  longer, 
in  their  opinion,  appears  to  be  in  contradiction  with  the  dis- 
coveries of  science.  One  of  two  things,  therefore :  either,  he 
uses  language  without  the  slightest  appreciation  of  its  real 
meaning;  or,  the  assertions  he  makes  on  one  page  are  directly 
contradicted  by  the  arguments  he  urges  on  another. 

Dr.  Gumming' s  principles — or,  we  should  rather  say,  con- 
fused notions — of  Biblical  interpretation,  as  exhibited  in  this 
volume,  are  particularly  significant  of  his  mental  calibre. 

He  says  ("  Church  before  the  Flood,"  p.  93)  :— 

"Men  of  science,  who  are  full  of  scientific  investigation,  and  en- 
amoured of  scientific  discovery,  will  hesitate  before  they  accept  a  book 


110  EVANGELICAL  TEACHING: 

which,  they  think,  contradicts  the  plainest  and  the  most  unequivocal 
disclosures  they  have  made  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  or  among  the 
stars  of  the  sky.  To  all  these  we  answer,  as  we  have  already  indicated, 
there  is  not  the  least  dissonance  between  God's  written  book  and  the 
most  mature  discoveries  of  geological  science.  One  thing,  however, 
there  may  be :  there  may  be  a  contradiction  between  the  discoveries  of 
geology  and  our  preconceived  interpretations  oj  the  Bible.  But  this  is  not 
because  the  Bible  is  wrong,  but  because  our  interpretation  is  wrong." 
(The  italics  in  all  cases  are  our  own.) 

Elsewhere  lie  says : — 

"It  seems  to  me  plainly  evident  that  the  record  of  Genesis,  when 
read  fairly,  and  not  in  the  light  of  our  prejudices, — and  mind  you,  the 
essence  of  Popery  is  to  read  the  Bible  in  the  light  of  our  opinions,  instead 
of  vieioing  our  opinions  in  the  light  of  the  Bible,  in  its  plain  and  obvious 
sense, — falls  in  perfectly  with  the  assertion  of  geologists." 

On  comparing  these  two  passages,  we  gather  that  when  Dr. 
Gumming,  under  stress  of  geological  discovery,  assigns  to  the 
Biblical  text  a  meaning  entirely  different  from  that  which,  on 
his  own  showing,  was  universally  ascribed  to  it  for  more  than 
three  thousand  years,  he  regards  himself  as  "viewing  his 
opinions  in  the  light  of  the  Bible  in  its  plain  and  obvious 
sense  "  !  Now  he  is  reduced  to  one  of  two  alternatives :  either, 
he  must  hold  that  the  "  plain  and  obvious  meaning  "  lies  in  the 
sum  of  knowledge  possessed  by  each  successive  age — the  Bible 
being  an  elastic  garment  for  the  growing  thought  of  mankind; 
or,  he  must  hold  that  some  portions  are  amenable  to  this  crite- 
rion, and  others  not  so.  In  the  former  case,  he  accepts  the 
principle  of  interpretation  adopted  by  the  early  German  ra- 
tionalists ;  in  the  latter  case,  he  has  to  show  a  further  criterion 
by  which  we  can  judge  what  parts  of  the  Bible  are  elastic  and 
what  rigid.  If  he  says  that  the  interpretation  of  the  text  is 
rigid  wherever  it  treats  of  doctrines  necessary  to  salvation, 
we  answer,  that  for  doctrines  to  be  necessary  to  salvation  they 
must  first  be  true;  and  in  order  to  be  true,  according  to  his 
own  principle,  they  must  be  founded  on  a  correct  interpretation 
of  the  Biblical  text.  Thus  he  makes  the  necessity  of  doc- 
trines to  salvation  the  criterion  of  infallible  interpretation,  and 
infallible  interpretation  the  criterion  of  doctrines  being  neces- 
sary to  salvation.  He  is  whirled  round  in  a  circle,  having, 


•     DR.   GUMMING.  Ill 

by  admitting  the  principle  of  novelty  in  interpretation,  com- 
pletely deprived  himself  of  a  basis.  That  he  should  seize  the 
very  moment  in  which  he  is  most  palpably  betraying  that  he 
has  no  test  of  Biblical  truth  beyond  his  own  opinion,  as  an 
appropriate  occasion  for  flinging  the  rather  novel  reproach 
against  Popery  that  its  essence  is  to  "  read  the  Bible  in  the 
light  of  our  opinions,"  would  be  an  almost  pathetic  self- 
exposure,  if  it  were  not  disgusting.  Imbecility  that  is  not 
even  meek,  ceases  to  be  pitiable,  and  becomes  simply  odious. 

Parenthetic  lashes  of  this  kind  against  Popery  are  very 
frequent  with  Dr.  Gumming,  and  occur  even  in  his  more  devout 
passages,  where  their  introduction  must  surely  disturb  the 
spiritual  exercises  of  his  hearers.  Indeed,  Koman  Catholics 
fare  worse  with  him  even  than  infidels.  Infidels  are  the  small 
vermin — the- mice  to  be  bagged  en  passant.  The  main  object 
of  his  chase — the  rats  which  are  to  be  nailed  up  as  trophies 
— are  the  Koman  Catholics.  Romanism  is  the  masterpiece 
of  Satan.  But  reassure  yourselves !  Dr.  Gumming  has  been 
created.  Antichrist  is  enthroned  in  the  Vatican ;  but  he  is 
stoutly  withstood  by  the  Boanerges  of  Crown  Court.  The 
personality  of  Satan,  as  might  be  expected,  is  a  very  promi- 
nent tenet  in  Dr.  Gumming' s  discourses ;  those  who  doubt  it 
are,  he  thinks,  "  generally  specimens  of  the  victims  of  Satan 
as  a  triumphant  seducer " ;  and  it  is  through  the  medium  of 
this  doctrine  that  he  habitually  contemplates  Koman  Catholics. 
They  are  the  puppets  of  which  the  devil  holds  the  strings.  It 
is  only  exceptionally  that  he  speaks  of  them  as  fellow-men, 
acted  on  by  the  same  desires,  fears,  and  hopes  as  himself ;  his 
rule  is  to  hold  them  up  to  his  hearers  as  foredoomed  instru- 
ments of  Satan,  and  vessels  of  wrath!  If  he  is  obliged  to 
admit  that  they  are  "  no  shams, "  that  they  are  "  thoroughly  in 
earnest " — that  is  because  they  are  inspired  by  hell,  because 
they  are  under  an  "  infra-natural "  influence.  If  their  mis- 
sionaries are  found  wherever  Protestant  missionaries  go,  this 
zeal  in  propagating  their  faith  is  not  in  them  a  consistent  vir- 
tue, as  it  is  in  Protestants,  but  a  "  melancholy  fact, "  affording 
additional  evidence  that  they  are  instigated  and  assisted  by 
the  devil.  And  Dr.  Gumming  is  inclined  to  think  that  they 
work  miracles,  because  that  is  no  more  than  might  be  ex- 


112  EVANGELICAL  TEACHING: 

pected  from  the  known  ability  of  Satan  who  inspires  them.1 
He  admits,  indeed,  that  "  there  is  a  fragment  of  the  Church 
of  Christ  in  the  very  bosom  of  that  awful  apostasy, "  2  and  that 
there  are  members  of  the  Church  of  Rome  in  glory ;  but  this 
admission  is  rare  and  episodical — is  a  declaration,  pro  forma, 
about  as  influential  on  the  general  disposition  and  habits  as  an 
aristocrat's  profession  of  democracy. 

This  leads  us  to  mention  another  conspicuous  characteristic 
of  Dr.  Cumming's  teaching — the  absence  of  genuine  charity. 
It  is  true  that  he  makes  large  profession  of  tolerance  and  lib- 
erality within  a  certain  circle ;  he  exhorts  Christians  to  unity ; 
he  would  have  Churchmen  fraternize  with  Dissenters,  and 
exhorts  these  two  branches  of  God's  family  to  defer  the  settle- 
ment of  their  differences  till  the  millennium.  But  the  love 
thus  taught  is  the  love  of  the  clan,  which  is  the  correlative  of 
antagonism  to  the  rest  of  mankind.  It  is  not  sympathy  and 
helpfulness  toward  men  as  men,  but  toward  men  as  Christians, 
and  as  Christians  in  the  sense  of  a  small  minority.  Dr.  Cum- 
ming's religion  may  demand  a  tribute  of  love,  but  it  gives  a 
charter  to  hatred ;  it  may  enjoin  charity,  but  it  fosters  all 
uncharitableness.  If  I  believe  that  God  tells  me  to  love  my 
enemies,  but  at  the  same  time  hates  His  own  enemies  and 
requires  me  to  have  one  will  with  Him,  which  has  the  larger 
scope,  love  or  hatred?  And  we  refer  to  those  pages  of  Dr. 
Cumming's  in  which  he  opposes  Roman  Catholics,  Puseyites, 
and  infidels — pages  which  form  the  larger  proportion  of  what 
he  has  published — for  proof  that  the  idea  of  God  which  both 
the  logic  and  spirit  of  his  discourses  keep  present  to  his  hearers 
is  that  of  a  God  who  hates  His  enemies,  a  God  who  teaches 
love  by  fierce  denunciations  of  wrath — a  God  who  encourages 
obedience  to  His  precepts  by  elaborately  revealing  to  us  that 
His  own  government  is  in  precise  opposition  to  those  precepts. 
We  know  the  usual  evasions  on  this  subject.  We  know  Dr. 
Gumming  would  say  that  even  Roman  Catholics  are  to  be 
loved  and  succored  as  men;  that  he  would  help  even  that 
"unclean  spirit,"  Cardinal  Wiseman,  out  of  a  ditch.  But 
who  that  is  in  the  slightest  degree  acquainted  with  the  action 
of  the  human  mind,  will  believe  that  any  genuine  and  large 

1  Signs  of  the  Times,  p.  38.  J  Apoc.  Sketches,  p.  243. 


DR.   GUMMING  113 

charity  can  grow  out  of  an  exercise  of  love  which  is  always  to 
have  an  arriere-pensee  of  hatred?  Of  what  quality  would  be 
the  conjugal  love  of  a  husband  who  loved  his  spouse  as  a  wife, 
but  hated  her  as  a  woman?  It  is  reserved  for  the  regenerate 
mind,  according  to  Dr.  Gumming' s  conception  of  it,  to  be 
"  wise,  amazed,  temperate  and  furious,  loyal  and  neutral,  in  a 
moment."  Precepts  of  charity  uttered  with  faint  breath  at 
the  end  of  a  sermon  are  perfectly  futile,  when  all  the  force  of 
the  lungs  has  been  spent  in  keeping  the  hearer's  mind  fixed  on 
the  conception  of  his  fellow-men,  not  as  fellow-sinners  and 
fellow-sufferers,  but  as  agents  of  hell,  as  automata  through 
whom  Satan  plays  his  game  upon  earth, — not  on  objects  which 
call  forth  their  reverence,  their  love,  their  hope  of  good  even 
in  the  most  strayed  and  perverted,  but  on  a  minute  identifica- 
tion of  human  things  with  such  symbols  as  the  scarlet  whore, 
the  beast  out  of  the  abyss,  scorpions  whose  sting  is  in  their 
tails,  men  who  have  the  mark  of  the  beast,  and  unclean  spirits 
like  frogs.  You  might  as  well  attempt  to  educate  a  child's 
sense  of  beauty  by  hanging  its  nursery  with  the  horrible  and 
grotesque  pictures  in  which  the  early  painters  represented  the 
Last  Judgment,  as  expect  Christian  graces  to  nourish  on  that 
prophetic  interpretation  which  Dr.  Gumming  offers  as  the 
principal  nutriment  of  his  flock.  Quite  apart  from  the  critical 
basis  of  that  interpretation,  quite  apart  from  the  degree  of 
truth  there  may  be  in  Dr.  Cumming's  prognostications — ques- 
tions into  which  we  do  not  choose  to  enter — his  use  of  proph- 
ecy must  be  a  priori  condemned  in  the  judgment  of  right- 
minded  persons,  by  its  results  as  testified  in  the  net  moral 
effect  of  his  sermons.  The  best  minds  that  accept  Christian- 
ity as  a  divinely  inspired  system,  believe  that  the  great  end  of 
the  Gospel  is  not  merely  the  saving  but  the  educating  of  men's 
souls,  the  creating  within  them  of  holy  dispositions,  the  sub- 
duing of  egoistical  pretensions,  and  the  perpetual  enhancing 
of  the  desire  that  the  will  of  God — a  will  synonymous  with 
goodness  and  truth — maybe  done  on  earth.  But  what  relation 
to  all  this  has  a  system  of  interpretation  which  keeps  the  mind 
of  the  Christian  in  the  position  of  a  spectator  at  a  gladiatorial 
show,  of  which  Satan  is  the  wild  beast  in  the  shape  of  the 
great  red  dragon,  and  two-thirds  of  mankind  the  victims — 
8 


114  EVANGELICAL  TEACHING- 

the  whole  provided  and  got  up  by  God  for  the  edification  of 
the  saints?  The  demonstration  that  the  Second  Advent  is  at 
hand,  if  true,  can  have  no  really  holy,  spiritual  effect;  the 
highest  state  of  mind  inculcated  by  the  Gospel  is  resignation 
to  the  disposal  of  God's  providence — "  Whether  we  live,  we 
live  under  the  Lord ;  whether  we  die,  we  die  unto  the  Lord  " 
— not  an  eagerness  to  see  a  temporal  manifestation  which  shall 
confound  the  enemies  of  God  and  give  exaltation  to  the  saints; 
it  is  to  dwell  in  Christ  by  spiritual  communion  with  His  na- 
ture, not  to  fix  the  date  when  He  shall  appear  in  the  sky. 
Dr.  Cumming's  delight  in  shadowing  forth  the  downfall  of  the 
Man  of  Sin,  in  prognosticating  the  battle  of  Gog  and  Magog, 
and  in  advertising  the  premillennial  Advent,  is  simply  the 
transportation  of  political  passions  on  to  a  so-called  religious 
platform ;  it  is  the  anticipation  of  the  triumph  of  "  our  party," 
accomplished  by  our  principal  men  being  "  sent  for  "  into  the 
clouds.  Let  us  be  understood  to  speak  in  all  seriousness.  If 
we  were  in  search  of  amusement,  we  should  not  seek  for  it  by 
examining  Dr.  Cumming's  works  in  order  to  ridicule  them. 
We  are  simply  discharging  a  disagreeable  duty  in  delivering 
our  opinion  that,  judged  by  the  highest  standard  even  of  ortho- 
dox Christianity,  they  are  little  calculated  to  produce 

"A  closer  walk  with  God, 
A  calm  and  heavenly  frame  " ; 

but  are  more  likely  to  nourish  egoistic  complacency  and  pre- 
tension, a  hard  and  condemnatory  spirit  toward  one's  fellow- 
men,  and  a  busy  occupation  with  the  minutiae  of  events,  in- 
stead of  a  reverent  contemplation  of  great  facts  and  a  wise 
application  of  great  principles.  It  would  be  idle  to  consider 
Dr.  Cumming's  theory  of  prophecy  in  any  other  light, — as  a 
philosophy  of  history  or  a  specimen  of  Biblical  interpretation ; 
it  bears  about  the  same  relation  to  the  extension  of  genuine 
knowledge  as  the  astrological  "  house  "  in  the  heavens  bears  to 
the  true  structure  and  relations  of  the  universe. 

The  slight  degree  in  which  Dr.  Cumming's  faith  is  imbued 
with  truly  human  sympathies  is  exhibited  in  the  way  he  treats 
the  doctrine  of  Eternal  Punishment.  Here  a  little  of  that 
readiness  to  strain  the  letter  of  the  Scriptures  which  he  so 


DR.   GUMMING.  115 

often  manifests  when  his  object  is  to  prove  a  point  against 
Romanism,  would  have  been  an  amiable  frailty  if  it  had  been 
applied  on  the  side  of  mercy.  When  he  is  bent  on  proving 
that  the  prophecy  concerning  the  Man  of  Sin,  in  the  Second 
Epistle  to  the  Thessalonians,  refers  to  the  Pope,  he  can  extort 
from  the  innocent  word  xaOiaat  the  meaning  cathedrise  ;  though 
why  we  are  to  translate  "  He  as  God  cathedrises  in  the  temple 
of  God, "  any  more  than  we  are  to  translate  "  cathedrise  here, 
while  I  go  and  pray  yonder,"  it  is  for  Dr.  Gumming  to  show 
more  clearly  than  he  has  yet  done.  But  when  rigorous  liter- 
ality  will  favor  the  conclusion  that  the  greater  proportion  of 
the  human  race  will  be  eternally  miserable,  then  he  is  rigor- 
ously literal.  He  says — 

"  The  Greek  words,  «c  rovf  alavas  TUV  aiuvuv,  here  translated  '  everlast- 
ing,'  signify  literally  '  unto  the  ages  of  ages  ' ;  aisl  uv,  *  always  being,' 
that  is,  everlasting,  ceaseless  existence.  Plato  uses  the  word  in  this 
sense  when  he  says,  '  The  gods  that  live  for  ever. '  But  I  must  also  ad- 
mit, that  this  word  is  used  several  times  in  a  limited  extent, — as  for 
instance,  k  The  everlasting  hills.'  Of  course,  this  does  not  mean  that 
there  never  will  be  a  time  when  the -hills  will  cease  to  stand  ;  the  ex- 
pression here  is  evidently  figurative,  but  it  implies  eternity.  The  hills 
shall  remain  as  long  as  the  earth  lasts,  and  no  hand  has  power  to  remove 
them  but  that  Eternal  One  which  first  called  them  into  being ;  so  the 
state  of  the  soul  remains  the  same  after  death  as  long  as  the  soul  exists, 
and  no  one  has  power  to  alter  it.  The  same  word  is  often  applied  to 
denote  the  existence  of  God — '  the  Eternal  God.'  Can  we  limit  the 
word  when  applied  to  Him?  Because  occasionally  used  in  a  limited 
sense,  we  must  not  infer  it  is  always  so.  '  Everlasting  '  plainly  means 
in  Scripture  '  without  end  ' ;  it  is  only  to  be  explained  figuratively  when 
it  is  evident  it  cannot  be  interpreted  in  any  other  way." 

We  do  not  discuss  whether  Dr.  Gumming' s  interpretation 
accords  with  the  meaning  of  the  New  Testament  writers :  we 
simply  point  to  the  fact  that  the  text  becomes  elastic  for  him 
when  he  wants  freer  play  for  his  prejudices;  while  he  makes 
it  an  adamantine  barrier  against  the  admission  that  mercy  will 
ultimately  triumph,  that  God — i.e.,  Love — will  be  all  in  all. 
He  assures  us  that  he  does  not  "  delight  to  dwell  on  the  misery 
of  the  lost " ;  and  we  believe  him.  That  misery  does  not  seem 
to  be  a  question  of  feeling  with  him,  either  one  way  or  the 
other.  He  does  not  merely  resign  himself  to  the  awful  mys- 
tery of  eternal  punishment ;  he  contends  for  it.  Do  we  object, 


116  EVANGELICAL  TEACHING: 

he  asks,1  to  everlasting  happiness?  then  why  object  to  ever- 
lasting misery? — reasoning  which  is  perhaps  felt  to  be  cogent 
by  theologians  who  anticipate  the  everlasting  happiness  for 
themselves,  and  the  everlasting  misery  for  their  neighbors. 

The  compassion  of  some  Christians  has  been  glad  to  take 
refuge  in  the  opinion,  that  the  Bible  allows  the  supposition  of 
annihilation  for  the  impenitent ;  but  the  rigid  sequence  of  Dr* 
Gumming' s  reasoning  will  not  admit  of  this  idea.  He  sees 
that  flax  is  made  into  linen,  and  linen  into  paper ;  that  paper, 
when  burnt,  partly  ascends  as  smoke,  and  then  again  descends 
in  rain,  or  in  dust  and  carbon.  "  Not  one  particle  of  the  orig- 
inal flax  is  lost,  although  there  may  be  not  one  particle  that 
has  not  undergone  an  entire  change;  annihilation  is  not,  but 
change  of  form  is.  It  will  be  thus  with  our  bodies  at  the  resur- 
rection. The  death  of  the  body  means  not  annihilation.  Xot 
one  feature  of  the  face  will  be  annihilated."  Having  estab- 
lished the  perpetuity  of  the  body  by  this  close  and  clear  anal- 
ogy— namely,  that  as  there  is  a  total  change  in  the  particles 
of  flax  in  consequence  of  which  they  no  longer  appear  as  flax, 
so  there  will  not  be  a  total  change  in  the  particles  of  the  human 
body,  but  they  will  reappear  as  the  human  body — he  does  not 
seem  to  consider  that  the  perpetuity  of  the  body  involves  the 
perpetuity  of  the  soul,  but  requires  separate  evidence  for  this, 
and  finds  such  evidence  by  begging  the  very  question  at  issue 
— namely,  by  asserting  that  the  text  of  the  Scriptures  implies 
"  the  perpetuity  of  the  punishment  of  the  lost,  and  the  con- 
sciousness of  the  punishment  which  they  endure. "  Yet  it  is 
drivelling  like  this  which  is  listened  to-  and  lauded  as  elo- 
quence by  hundreds,  and  which  a  Doctor  of  Divinity  can  be- 
lieve that  he  has  his  "  reward  as  a  saint "  for  preaching  and 
publishing ! 

One  more  characteristic  of  Dr.  Gumming' s  writings,  and  we 
have  done.  This  is  the  perverted  moral  judgment  that  every- 
where reigns  in  them.  Xot  that  this  perversion  is  peculiar 
to  Dr.  Gumming ;  it  belongs  to  the  dogmatic  system  which  he 
shares  with  all  evangelical  believers.  But  the  abstract  ten- 
dencies of  systems  are  represented  in  very  different  degrees, 
according  to  the  different  characters  of  those  who  embrace 
1  >iau.  of  Christ.  Ev.,  p.  184. 


DR.    GUMMING.  117 

them ;  just  as  the  same  food  tells  differently  on  different  con- 
stitutions: and  there  are  certain  qualities  in  Dr.  Gumming 
that  cause  the  perversion  of  which  we  speak  to  exhibit  itself 
with  peculiar  prominence  in  his  teaching.  A  single  extract 
will  enable  us  to  explain  what  we  mean : — 

"The  '  thoughts  '  are  evil.  If  it  were  possible  for  human  eye  to  dis- 
cern and  to  detect  the  thoughts  that  flutter  round  the  heart  of  an  unre- 
generate  man— to  mark  their  hue  and  their  multitude — it  would  be 
found  that  they  are  indeed  '  evil. '  We  speak  not  of  the  thief,  and  the 
murderer,  and  the  adulterer,  and  suchlike,  whose  crimes  draw  down  the 
cognizance  of  earthly  tribunals,  and  whose  unenviable  character  it  is  to 
take  the  lead  in  the  paths  of  sin  ;  but  we  refer  to  the  men  who  are  marked 
out  by  their  practice  of  many  of  the  seemliest  moralities  of  life — by  the 
exercise  of  the  kindliest  affections,  and  the  interchange  of  the  sweetest 
reciprocities — and  of  these  men,  if  unrenewed  and  unchanged,  we  pro- 
nounce that  their  thoughts  are  evil.  To  ascertain  this,  we  must  refer  to 
the  object  around  which  our  thoughts  ought  continually  to  circulate. 
The  Scriptures  assert  that  this  object  is  the  glory  of  God;  that  for  this 
we  ought  to  think,  to  act,  and  to  speak  ;  and  that  in  thus  thinking,  act- 
ing, and  speaking,  there  is  involved  the  purest  and  most  endearing  bliss. 
Now  it  will  be  found  true  of  the  most  amiable  men,  that  with  all  their 
good  society  and  kindliness  of  heart,  and  all  their  strict  and  unbending 
integrity,  they  never  or  rarely  think  of  the  glory  of  God.  The  question 
never  occurs  to  them — Will  this  redound  to  the  glory  of  God?  Will  this 
make  His  name  more  known,  His  being  more  loved,  His  praise  more 
sung?  And  just  inasmuch  as  their  every  thought  comes  short  of  this 
lofty  aim,  in  so  much  does  it  come  short  of  good,  and  entitle  itself  to 
the  character  of  evil.  If  the  glory  of  God  is  not  the  absorbing  and  the 
influential  aim  of  their  thoughts,  then  they  are  evil;  but  God's  glory 
never  enters  into  their  minds.  They  are  amiable,  because  it  chances  to 
be  one  of  the  constitutional  tendencies  of  their  individual  character, 
left  uneffaced  by  the  Fall ;  and  they  are  just  and  upright,  because  they 
have  perhaps  no  occasion  to  be  otherwise,  orjind  it  subservient  to  their  in- 
terests to  maintain  such  a  character." — Occ.  Disc.,  vol.  i.  p.  8. 

Again  we  read  (Ibid.,  p.  236)  : — 

"There  are  traits  in  the  Christian  character  which  the  mere  worldly 
man  cannot  understand.  He  can  understand  the  outward  morality,  but 
he  cannot  understand  the  inner  spring  of  it ;  he  can  understand  Dorcas's 
liberality  to  the  poor,  ttut  he  cannot  penetrate  the  ground  of  Dorcas's 
liberality.  Some  men  give  to  the  poor  because  they  are  ostentatious,  or 
because  they  think  the  poor  will  ultimately  avenge  their  neglect ;  but  the 
Christian  gives  to  the  poor,  not  only  because  he  has  sensibilities  like  other 
men,  but  because  inasmuch  as  ye  did  it  to  the  least  of  these  my  brethren, 
ye  did  it  unto  me." 


118  EVANGELICAL  TEACHING: 

Before  entering  on  the  more  general  question  involved  in 
these  quotations,  we  must  point  to  the  clauses  we  have  marked 
with  italics,  where  Dr.  Gumming  appears  to  express  senti- 
ments which,  we  are  happy  to  think,  are  not  shared  by  the 
majority  of  his  brethren  in  the  faith.  Dr.  Gumming,  it  seems, 
is  unable  to  conceive  that  the  aatural  man  can  have  any  other 
motive  for  being  just  and  upright  than  that  it  is  useless  to  be 
otherwise,  or  that  a  character  for  honesty  is  profitable ;  ac- 
cording to  his  experience,  between  the  feelings  of  ostentation 
and  selfish  alarm  and  the  feeling  of  love  to  Christ,  there  lie 
no  sensibilities  which  can  lead  a  man  to  relieve  want.  Grant- 
ing, as  we  should  prefer  to  think,  that  it  is  Dr.  Gumming' s 
exposition  of  his  sentiments  which  is  deficient  rather  than  his 
sentiments  themselves,  still,  the  fact  that  the  deficiency  lies 
precisely  here,  and  that  he  can  overlook  it  not  only  in  the 
haste  of  oral  delivery  but  in  the  examination  of  proof-sheets, 
is  strongly  significant  of  his  mental  bias — of  the  faint  degree 
in  which  he  sympathizes  with  the  disinterested  elements  of 
human  feeling,  and  of  the  fact,  which  we  are  about  to  dwell 
upon,  that  those  feelings  are  totally  absent  from  his  religious 
theory.  Now,  Dr.  Gumming  invariably  assumes  that,  in  ful- 
minating against  those  who  differ  from  him,  he  is  standing  on 
a  moral  elevation  to  which  they  are  compelled  reluctantly  to 
look  up;  that  his  theory  of  motives  and  conduct  is  in  its  lofti- 
ness and  purity  a  perpetual  rebuke  to  their  low  and  vicious 
desires  and  practice.  It  is  time  he  should  be  told  that  the 
reverse  is  the  fact;  that  there  are  men  who  do  not  merely 
cast  a  superficial  glance  at  his  doctrine,  and  fail  to  see  its 
beauty  or  justice,  but  who,  after  a  close  consideration  of  that 
doctrine,  pronounce  it  to  be  subversive  of  true  moral  develop- 
ment, and  therefore  positively  noxious.  Dr.  Gumming  is  fond 
of  showing  up  the  teaching  of  Romanism,  and  accusing  it  of 
undermining  true  morality :  it  is  time  he  should  be  told  that 
there  is  a  large  body,  both  of  thinkers  and  practical  men,  who 
hold  precisely  -the  same  opinion  of  his  own  teaching — with 
this  difference,  that  they  do  not  regard  it  as  the  inspiration 
of  Satan,  but  as  the  natural  crop  of  a  human  mind  where 
the  soil  is  chiefly  made  up  of  egoistic  passions  and  dogmatic 
beliefs. 


DR.   CUMMING.  119 

Dr.  Gumming' s  theory,  as  we  have  seen,  is  that  actions  are 
good  or  evil  according  as  they  are  prompted  or  not  prompted 
by  an  exclusive  reference  to  the  "glory  of  God."  God,  then, 
in  Dr.  Gumming' s  conception,  is  a  Being  who  has  no  pleasure 
in  the  exercise  of  love  and  truthfulness  and  justice,  considered 
as  affecting  the  well-being  of  His  creatures ;  He  has  satisfac- 
tion in  us  only  in  so  far  as  we  exhaust  our  motives  and  dispo- 
sitions of  all  relation  to  our  fellow-beings,  and  replace  sym- 
pathy with  men  by  anxiety  for  the  "glory  of  God."  The 
deed  of  Grace  Darling,  when  she  took  a  boat  in  the  storm  to 
rescue  drowning  men  and  women,  was  not  good  if  it  was  only 
compassion  that  nerved  her  arm  and  impelled  her  to  brave 
death  for  the  chance  of  saving  others ;  it  was  only  good  if  she 
asked  herself — Will  this  redound  to  the  glory  of  God?  The 
man  who  endures  tortures  rather  than  betray  a  trust,  the  man 
who  spends  years  in  toil  in  order  to  discharge  an  obligation 
from  which  the  law  declares  him  free,  must  be  animated  not 
by  the  spirit  of  fidelity  to  his  fellow-man,  but  by  a  desire  to 
make  "the  name  of  God  more  known."  The  sweet  charities 
of  domestic  life — the  ready  hand  and  the  soothing  word  in 
sickness,  the  forbearance  toward  frailties,  the  prompt  helpful- 
ness in  all  efforts  and  sympathy  in  all  joys — are  simply  evil  if 
they  result  from  a  "  constitutional  tendency  "  or  from  disposi- 
tions disciplined  by  the  experience  of  suffering  and  the  per- 
ception of  moral  loveliness.  A  wife  is  not  to  devote  herself 
to  her  husband  out  of  love  to  him  and  a  sense  of  the  duties 
implied  by  a  close  relation — she  is  to  be  a  faithful  wife  for 
the  glory  of  God;  if  she  feels  her  natural  affections  welling 
up  too  strongly,  she  is  to  repress  them ;  it  will  not  do  to  act 
from  natural  affection — she  must  think  of  the  glory  of  God. 
A  man  is  to  guide  his  affairs  with  energy  and  discretion,  not 
from  an  honest  desire  to  fulfil  his  responsibilities  as  a  mem- 
ber of  society  and  a  father,  but — that  "God's  praise  may  be 
sung."  Dr.  Gumming' s  Christian  pays  his  debts  for  the  glory 
of  God :  were  it  not  for  the  coercion  of  that  supreme  motive, 
it  would  be  evil  to  pay  them.  A  man  is  not  to  be  just  from 
a  feeling  of  justice ;  he  is  not  to  help  his  fellow-men  out  of 
good-will  to  his  fellow-men ;  he  is  not  to  be  a  tender  husband 
and  father  out  of  affection:  all  these  natural  muscles  and 


120  EVANGELICAL  TEACHING: 

fibres  are  to  be  torn  away  and  replaced  by  a  patent  steel  spring 
— anxiety  for  the  "glory  of  God." 

Happily,  the  constitution  of  human  nature  forbids  the  com- 
plete prevalence  of  such  a  theory.  Fatally  powerful  as  relig- 
ious systems  have  been,  human  nature  is  stronger  and  wider 
than  religious  systems,  and  though  dogmas  may  hamper,  they 
cannot  absolutely  repress  its  growth :  build  walls  round  the 
living  tree  as  you  will,  the  bricks  and  mortar  have  by  and  by 
to  give  way  before  the  slow  and  sure  operation  of  the  sap. 
But  next  to  that  hatred  of  the  enemies  of  God  which  is  the 
principle  of  persecution,  there  perhaps  has  been  no  perversion 
more  obstructive  of  true  moral  development  than  this  substi- 
tution of  a  reference  to  the  glory  of  God  for  the  direct  prompt- 
ings of  the  sympathetic  feelings.  Benevolence  and  justice  are 
strong  only  in  proportion  as  they  are  directly  and  inevitably 
called  into  activity  by  their  proper  objects :  pity  is  strong  only 
because  we  are  strongly  impressed  by  suffering;  and  only  in 
proportion  as  it  is  compassion  that  speaks  through  the  eyes 
when  we  soothe,  and  moves  the  arm  when  we  succor,  is  a  deed 
strictly  benevolent.  If  the  soothing  or  the  succor  be  given 
because  another  being  wishes  or  approves  it,  the  deed  ceases  to 
be  one  of  benevolence,  and  becomes  one  of  deference,  of  obe- 
dience, of  self-interest,  or  vanity.  Accessory  motives  may  aid 
in  producing  an  action,  but  they  presuppose  the  weakness  of 
the  direct  motive ;  and  conversely,  when  the  direct  motive  is 
strong,  the  action  of  accessory  motives  will  be  excluded.  If 
then,  as  Dr.  Gumming  inculcates,  the  glory  of  God  is  to  be 
"  the  absorbing  and  the  influential  aim  "  in  our  thoughts  and 
actions,  this  must  tend  to  neutralize  the  human  sympathies ; 
the  stream  of  feeling  will  be  diverted  from  its  natural  current 
in  order  to  feed  an  artificial  canal.  The  idea  of  God  is  really 
moral  in  its  influence — it  really  cherishes  all  that  is  best  and 
loveliest  in  man — only  when  God  is  contemplated  as  sympa- 
thizing with  the  pure  elements  of  human  feeling,  as  possessing 
infinitely  all  those  attributes  which  we  recognize  to  be  moral 
in  humanity.  In  this  light,  the  idea  of  God  and  the  sense  of 
His  presence  intensify  all  noble  feeling,  and  encourage  all 
noble  effort,  on  the  same  principle  that  human  sympathy  is 
found  a  source  of  strength :  the  brave  man  feels  braver  when 


DR.   GUMMING  121 

ie  knows  that  another  stout  heart  is  beating  time  with  his ; 
the  devoted  woman  who  is  wearing  out  her  years  in  patient 
effort  to  alleviate  suffering  or  save  vice  from  the  last  stages  of 
degradation,  finds  aid  in  the  pressure  of  a  friendly  hand  which 
tells  her  that  there  is  one  who  understands  her  deeds,  and  in 
her  place  would  do  the  like.  The  idea  of  a  God  who  not  only 
sympathizes  with  all  we  feel  and  endure  for  our  fellow- men, 
but  who  will  pour  new  life  into  our  too  languid  love,  and  give 
firmness  to  our  vacillating  purpose,  is  an  extension  and  multi- 
plication of  the  effects  produced  by  human  sympathy ;  and  it 
has  been  intensified  for  the  better  spirits  who  have  been  under 
the  influence  of  orthodox  Christianity,  by  the  contemplation 
of  Jesus  as  "  God  manifest  in  the  flesh."  But  Dr.  Gumming' s 
God  is  the  very  opposite  of  all  this :  He  is  a  God  who,  instead 
of  sharing  and  aiding  our  human  sympathies,  is  directly  in 
collision  with  them ;  who,  instead  of  strengthening  the  bond 
between  man  and  man,  by  encouraging  the  sense  that  they  are 
both  alike  the  objects  of  His  love  and  care,  thrusts  Himself 
between  them  and  forbids  them  to  feel  for  each  other  except 
as  they  have  relation  to  Him.  He  is  a  God  who,  instead  of 
adding  His  solar  force  to  swell  the  tide  of  those  impulses  that 
tend  to  give  humanity  a  common  life  in  which  the  good  of  one 
is  the  good  of  all,  commands  us  to  check  those  impulses,  lest 
they  should  prevent  us  from  thinking  of  His  glory.  It  is  in 
vain  for  Dr.  Gumming  to  say  that  we  are  to  love  man  for  God's 
sake :  with  the  conception  of  God  which  his  teaching  presents, 
the  love  of  man  for  God's  sake  involves,  as  his  writings  abun- 
dantly show,  a  strong  principle  of  hatred.  We  can  only  love 
one  being  for  the  sake  of  another  when  thsre  is  an  habitual 
delight  in  associating  the  idea  of  those  two  beings — that  is, 
when  the  object  of  our  indirect  love  is  a  source  of  joy  and 
honor  to  the  object  of  our  direct  love.  But,  according  to  Dr. 
Gumming' s  theory,  the  majority  of  mankind — the  majority  of 
his  neighbors — are  in  precisely  the  opposite  relation  to  God. 
His  soul  has  no  pleasure  in  them :  they  belong  more  to  Satan 
than  to  Him ;  and  if  they  contribute  to  His  glory,  it  is  against 
their  will.  Dr.  Gumming,  then,  can  only  love  some  men  for 
God's  sakej  the  rest  he  must  in  consistency  hate  for  God's 
sake. 


122        EVANGELICAL  TEACHING     DR.   GUMMING. 

There  must  be  many,  even  in  the  circle  of  Dr.  Gumming*  s 
admirers,  who  would  be  revolted  by  the  doctrine  we  have  just 
exposed,  if  their  natural  good  sense  and  healthy  feeling  were 
not  early  stifled  by  dogmatic  beliefs,  and  their  reverence  mis- 
led by  pious  phrases.  But  as  it  is,  many  a  rational  question, 
many  a  generous  instinct,  is  repelled  as  the  suggestion  of  a 
supernatural  enemy,  or  as  the  ebullition  of  human  pride  and 
corruption.  This  state  of  inward  contradiction  can  be  put  an 
end  to  only  by  the  conviction  that  the  free  and  diligent  exer- 
tion of  the  intellect,  instead  of  being  a  sin,  is  a  part  of  their 
responsibility — that  Right  and  Keason  are  synonymous.  The 
fundamental  faith  for  man  is  faith  in  the  result  of  a  brave, 
honest,  and  steady  use  of  all  his  faculties : — 

"Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to  more, 

But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell ; 

That  mind  and  soul,  according  well, 
May  make  one  music  as  before, 
But  vaster." 

Before  taking  leave  of  Dr.  Gumming,  let  us  express  a  hope 
that  we  have  in  no  case  exaggerated  the  unfavorable  character 
of  the  inferences  to  be  drawn  from  his  pages.  His  creed  often 
obliges  him  to  hope  the  worst  of  men,  and  to  exert  himself 
in  proving  that  the  worst  is  true ;  but  thus  far  we  are  happier 
than  he.  We  have  no  theory  which  requires  us  to  attribute 
unworthy  motives  to  Dr.  Gumming,  no  opinions,  religious  or 
irreligious,  which  can  make  it  a  gratification  to  us  to  detect 
him  in  delinquencies.  On  the  contrary,  the  better  we  are  able 
to  think  of  him  as  a  man,  while  we  are  obliged  to  disapprove 
him  as  a  theologian,  the  stronger  will  be  the  evidence  for  our 
conviction,  that  the  tendency  toward  good  in  human  nature 
has  a  force  which  no  creed  can  utterly  counteract,  and  which 
insures  the  ultimate  triumph  of  that  tendency  over  all  dog- 
matic perversions. 


THE  INFLUENCE  OF  RATIONALISM; 
LECKY'S  HISTORY. 

THERE  is  a  valuable  class  of  books  on  great  subjects  which 
have  something  of  the  character  and  functions  of  good  popular 
lecturing.  They  are  not  original,  not  subtle,  not  of  close  logi- 
cal texture,  not  exquisite  either  in  thought  or  style ;  but  by 
virtue  of  these  negatives  they  are  all  the  more  fit  to  act  on  the 
average  intelligence.  They  have  enough  of  organizing  purpose 
in  them  to  make  their  facts  illustrative,  and  to  leave  a  distinct 
result  in  the  mind,  even  when  most  of  the  facts  are  forgotten ; 
and  they  have  enough  of  vagueness  and  vacillation  in  their 
theory  to  win  them  ready  acceptance  from  a  mixed  audience. 
The  vagueness  and  vacillation  are  not  devices  of  timidity; 
they  are  the  honest  result  of  the  writer's  own  mental  charac- 
ter, which  adapts  him  to  be  the  instructor  and  the  favorite  of 
"the  general  reader."  For  the  most  part,  the  general  reader 
of  the  present  day  does  not  exactly  know  what  distance  he 
goes;  he  only  knows  that  he  does  not  go  "too  far."  Of  any 
remarkable  thinker  whose  writings  have  excited  controversy, 
he  likes  to  have  it  said  that  "his  errors  are  to  be  deplored," 
leaving  it  not  too  certain  what  those  errors  are :  he  is  fond  of 
what  may  be  called  disembodied  opinions,  that  float  in  vapory 
phrases  above  all  systems  of  thought  or  action ;  he  likes  an 
undefined  Christianity  which  opposes  itself  to  nothing  in  par- 
ticular, an  undefined  education  of  the  people,  an  undefined 
amelioration  of  all  things:  in  fact,  he  likes  sound  views, — 
nothing  extreme,  but  something  between  the  excesses  of  the 
past  and  the  excesses  of  the  present.  This  modern  type  of 
the  general  reader  may  be  known  in  conversation  by  the  cor- 
diality with  which  he  assents  to  indistinct,  blurred  statements : 
say  that  black  is  black,  he  will  shake  his  head  and  hardly 
think  it;  say  that  black  is  not  so  very  black,  he  will  reply, 
"Exactly."  He  has  no  hesitation,  if  you  wish  it^  even  to  get 


124  THE  INFLUENCE  OF  RATIONALISM: 

up  at  a  public  meeting  and  express  his  conviction  that  at  times, 
and  within  certain  limits,  the  radii  of  a  circle  have  a  tendency 
to  be  equal ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  he  would  urge  that  the 
spirit  of  geometry  may  be  carried  a  little  too  far.  His  only 
bigotry  is  a  bigotry  against  any  clearly  defined  opinion;  not 
in  the  least  based  on  a  scientific  scepticism,  but  belonging  to 
a  lack  of  coherent  thought, — a  spongy  texture  of  mind,  that 
gravitates  strongly  to  nothing.  The  one  thing  he  is  stanch  for 
is  the  utmost  liberty  of  private  haziness. 

But  precisely  these  characteristics  of  the  general  reader, 
rendering  him  incapable  of  assimilating  ideas  unless  they  are 
administered  in  a  highly  diluted  form,  make  it  a  matter  of  re- 
joicing that  there  are  clever,  fair-minded  men,  who  will  write 
books  for  him, — men  very  much  above  him  in  knowledge  and 
ability,  but  not  too  remote  from  him  in  their  habits  of  think- 
ing, and  who  can  thus  prepare  for  him  infusions  of  his- 
tory and  science  that  will  leave  some  solidifying  deposit,  and 
save  him  from  a  fatal  softening  of  the  intellectual  skeleton. 
Among  such  serviceable  writers,  Mr.  Lecky's  "  History  of  the 
Rise  and  Influence  of  the  Spirit  of  Rationalism  in  Europe " 
entitles  him  to  a  high  place.  He  has  prepared  himself  for  its 
production  by  an  unusual  amount  of  well-directed  reading ;  he 
has  chosen  his  facts  and  quotations  with  much  judgment;  and 
he  gives  proof  of  those  important  moral  qualifications — impar- 
tiality, seriousness,  and  modesty.  This  praise  is  chiefly  appli- 
cable to  the  long  chapter  on  the  history  of  magic  and  witchcraft 
which  opens  the  work,  and  to  the  two  chapters  on  the  antece- 
dents and  history  of  persecution,  which  occur,  the  one  at  the 
end  of  the  first  volume,  the  other  at  the  beginning  of  the  sec- 
ond. In  these  chapters  Mr.  Lecky  has  a  narrower  and  better- 
traced  path  before  him  than  in  other  portions  of  his  work ;  he 
is  more  occupied  with  presenting  a  particular  class  of  facts  in 
their  historical  sequence,  and  in  their  relation  to  certain  grand 
tide-marks  of  opinion,  than  with  disquisition ;  and  his  writ- 
ing is  freer  than  elsewhere  from  an  apparent  confusedness  of 
thought  and  an  exuberance  of  approximative  phrases,  which 
can  be  serviceable  in  no  other  way  than  as  diluents  needful 
for  the  sort  of  reader  we  have  just  described. 

The  history  of  magic  and  witchcraft  has  been  judiciously 


LECKY'S  HISTORY.  126 

chosen  by  Mr.  Lecky  as  the  subject  of  his  first  section  on  the 
Declining  Sense  of  the  Miraculous,  because  it  is  strikingly 
illustrative  of  a  position  with  the  truth  of  which  he  is  strongly 
impressed,  though  he  may  not  always  treat  of  it  with  desirable 
clearness  and  precision — namely,  that  certain  beliefs  become 
obsolete,  not  in  consequence  of  direct  arguments  against  them, 
but  because  of  their  incongruity  with  prevalent  habits  of 
thought.  Here  is  his  statement  of  the  two  "  classes  of  influ- 
ences, "  by  which  the  mass  of  men,  in  what  is  called  civilized 
society,  get  their  beliefs  gradually  modified : —  ' 

"If  we  ask  why  it  is  that  the  world  has  rejected  what  was  once  so 
universally  and  so  intensely  believed,  why  a  narrative  of  an  old  woman 
who  had  been  seen  riding  on  a  broomstick,  or  who  was  proved  to  have 
transformed  herself  into  a  wolf,  and  to  have  devoured  the  flocks  of  her 
neighbors,  is  deemed  so  entirely  incredible,  most  persons  would  prob- 
ably be  unable  to  give  a  very  definite  answer  to  the  question.  It  is  not 
because  we  have  examined  the  evidence  and  found  it  insufficient,  for  the 
disbelief  always  precedes,  when  it  does  not  prevent,  examination.  It  is 
rather  because  the  idea  of  absurdity  is  so  strongly  attached  to  such  nar- 
ratives, that  it  is  difficult  even  to  consider  them  with  gravity.  Yet  at 
one  time  no  such  improbability  was  felt,  and  hundreds  of  persons  have 
been  burnt  simply  on  the  two  grounds  I  have  mentioned. 

"When  so  complete  a  change  takes  place  in  public  opinion,  it  may  be 
ascribed  to  one  or  other  of  two  causes.  It  may  be  the  result  of  a  con- 
troversy which  has  conclusively  settled  the  question,  establishing  to  the 
satisfaction  of  all  parties  a  clear  preponderance  of  argument  or  fact  in 
favor  of  one  opinion,  and  making  that  opinion  a  truism  which  is  ac- 
cepted by  all  enlightened  men,  even  though  they  have  not  themselves  ex- 
amined the  evidence  on  which  it  rests  Thus,  if  any  one  in  a  company 
of  ordinarily  educated  persons  were  to  deny  the  motion  of  the  earth,  or 
the  circulation  of  the  blood,  his  statement  would  be  received  with  de- 
rision, though  it  is  probable  that  some  of  his  audience  would  be  unable 
to  demonstrate  the  first  truth,  and  that  very  few  of  them  could  give 
sufficient  reasons  for  the  second.  They  may  not  themselves  be  able 
to  defend  their  position ,  but  they  are  aware  that,  at  certain  known 
periods  of  history,  controversies  on  those  subjects  took  place,  and  that 
known  writers  then  brought  forward  some  definite  arguments  or  experi- 
ments, which  were  ultimately  accepted  by  the  whole  learned  world  as 
rigid  and  conclusive  demonstrations.  It  is  possible,  also,  for  as  com- 
plete a  change  to  be  affected  by  what  is  called  the  spirit  of  the  age.  The 
general  intellectual  tendencies  pervading  the  literature  of  a  century  pro- 
foundly modify  the  character  of  the  public  mind.  They  form  a  new 
tone  and  habit  of  thought.  They  alter  the  measure  of  probability.  They 
create  new  attractions  and  uew  antipathies,  and  they  eventually  catiso  as 


126  THE  INFLUENCE  OF  RATIONALISM: 

absolute  a  rejection  of  certain  old  opinions  as  could  be  produced  by  th« 
most  cogent  and  definite  arguments." 

Mr.  Lecky  proceeds  to  some  questionable  views  concerning 
the  evidences  of  witchcraft,  which  seem  to  be  irreconcilable 
even  with  his  own  remarks  later  on;  but  they  lead  him  to 
the  statement,  thoroughly  made  out  by  his  historical  survey, 
that  "  the  movement  was  mainly  silent,  unargumentative,  and 
insensible;  that  men  came  gradually  to  disbelieve  in  witch- 
craft, because  they  came  gradually  to  look  upon  it  as  absurd; 
and  that  this  new  tone  of  thought  appeared,  first  of  all,  in 
those  who  were  least  subject  to  theological  influences,  and 
soon  spread  through  the  educated  laity,  and,  last  of  all,  took 
possession  of  the  clergy." 

We  have  rather  painful  proof  that  this  "  second  class  of  in- 
fluences "  with  a  vast  number  go  hardly  deeper  than  fashion, 
and  that  withcraft  to  many  of  us  is  absurd  only  on  the  same 
ground  that  our  grandfathers'  gigs  are  absurdo  It  is  felt  pre  • 
posterous  to  think  of  spiritual  agencies  in  connection  with 
ragged  beldames  soaring  on  broomsticks,  in  an  age  when  it 
is  known  that  mediums  of  communication  with  the  invisible 
world  are  usually  unctuous  personages  dressed  in  excellent 
broadcloth,  who  soar  above  the  curtain-poles  without  any 
broomstick,  and  who  are  not  given  to  unprofitable  intrigues. 
The  enlightened  imagination  rejects  the  figure  of  a  witch  with 
her  profile  in  dark  relief  against  the  moon  and  her  broomstick 
cutting  a  constellation.  No  undiscovered  natural  laws,  no 
names  of  "  respectable  "  witnesses,  are  invoked  to  make  us  feel 
our  presumption  in  questioning  the  diabolic  intimacies  of  that 
obsolete  old  woman,  for  it  is  known  now  that  the  undiscovered 
laws,  and  the  witnesses  qualified  by  the  payment  of  income- 
tax,  are  all  in  favor  of  a  different  conception — the  image  of  a 
heavy  gentleman  in  boots  and  black  coat-tails  foreshortened 
against  the  cornice.  Yet  no  less  a  person  than  Sir  Thomas 
Browne  once  wrote  that  those  who  denied  there  were  witches, 
inasmuch  as  they  thereby  denied  spirits  also,  were  "  obliquely 
and  upon  consequence  a  sort,  not  of  infidels,  but  of  atheists." 
At  present,  doubtless,  in  certain  circles,  unbelievers  in  heavy 
gentlemen  who  float  in  the  air  by  means  of  undiscovered  laws 
are  also  taxed  with  atheism  j  illiberal  as  it  is  not  to  admit  that 


LECKY'S  HISTORY  127 

mere  weakness  of  understanding  may  prevent  one  from  seeing 
how  that  phenomenon  is  necessarily  involved  in  the  Divine 
origin  of  things.  With  still  more  remarkable  parallelism,  Sir 
Thomas  Browne  goes  on :  "  Those  that,  to  refute  their  incre- 
dulity, desire  to  see  apparitions,  shall  questionless  never  be- 
hold any,  nor  have  the  power  to  be  so  much  as  witches.  The 
devil  hath  made  them  already  in  a  heresy  as  capital  as  witch- 
craft, and  to  appear  to  them,  were  but  to  convert  them."  It 
would  be  difficult  to  see  what  has  been  changed  here  but  the 
mere  drapery  of  circumstance,  if  it  were  not  for  this  promi- 
nent difference  between  our  own  days  and  the  days  of  witch- 
craft, that  iii stead  of  torturing,  drowning,  or  burning  the 
innocent,  we  give  hospitality  and  large  pay  to — the  highly 
distinguished  medium.  At  least  we  are  safely  rid  of  certain 
horrors ;  but  if  the  multitude — that  "  farraginous  concurrence 
of  all  conditions,  tempers,  sexes,  and  ages  " — do  not  roll  back 
even  to  a  superstition  that  carries  cruelty  in  its  train,  it  is  not 
because  they  possess  a  cultivated  Reason,  but  because  they  are 
pressed  upon  and  held  up  by  what  we  may  call  an  external 
Reason — the  sum  of  conditions  resulting  from  the  laws  of  ma- 
terial growth,  from  changes  produced  by  great  historical  colli- 
sions shattering  the  structures  of  ages  and  making  new  high- 
ways for  events  and  ideas,  and  from  the  activities  of  higher 
minds  no  longer  existing  merely  as  opinions  and  teaching,  but 
as  institutions  and  organizations  with  which  the  interests,  the 
affections,  and  the  habits  of  the  multitude  are  inextricably 
interwoven.  No  undiscovered  laws  accounting  for  small  phe- 
nomena going  forward  under  drawing-room  tables  are  likely 
to  affect  the  tremendous  facts  of  the  increase  of  population, 
the  rejection  of  convicts  by  our  colonies,  the  exhaustion  of  the 
soil  by  cotton  plantations,  which  urge  even  upon  the  foolish 
certain  questions,  certain  claims,  certain  views  concerning  the 
scheme  of  the  world,  that  can  never  again  be  silenced.  If 
right  reason  is  a  right  representation  of  the  coexistences  and 
sequences  of  things,  here  are  coexistences  and  sequences  that 
do  not  wait  to  be  discovered,  but  press  themselves  upon  us 
like  bars  of  iron.  No  seances  at  a  guinea  a  head  for  the  sake 
of  being  pinched  by  "  Mary  Jane "  can  annihilate  railways, 
steamships,  and  electric  telegraphs,  which  are  demonstrating 


128  THE  INFLUENCE  OF  RATIONALISM. 

the  interdependence  of  all  human  interests,  and  making  self- 
interest  a  duct  for  sympathy.  These  things  are  part  of  the 
external  Reason  to  which  internal  silliness  has  inevitably  to 
accommodate  itself. 

Three  points  in  the  history  of  magic  and  witchcraft  are  well 
brought  out  by  Mr.  Lecky.  First,  that  the  cruelties  connected 
with  it  did  not  begin  until  men's  minds  had  ceased  to  repose 
implicitly  in  a  sacramental  system  which  made  them  feel  well 
armed  against  evil  spirits — that  is,  until  the  eleventh  century, 
when  there  came  a  sort  of  morning  d/earn  of  doubt  and  heresy, 
bringing  on  the  one  side  the  terror  of  timid  consciences,  and 
on  the  other  the  terrorism  of  authority  or  zeal  bent  on  check- 
ing the  rising  struggle.  In  that  time  of  comparative  mental 
repose,  says  Mr.  Lecky — 

"All  those  conceptions  of  diabolical  presence  ;  all  that  predisposition 
toward  the  miraculous,  which  acted  so  fearfully  upon  the  imaginations 
of  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries,  existed  ;  but  the  implicit  faith, 
the  boundless  and  triumphant  credulity  with  which  the  virtue  of  ec- 
clesiastical rites  was  accepted,  rendered  them  comparatively  innocuous. 
If  men  had  been  a  little  less  superstitious,  the  effects  of  their  supersti- 
tion would  have  been  much  more  terrible.  It  was  firmly  believed  that 
any  one  who  deviated  from  the  strict  line  of  orthodoxy  must  soon  suc- 
cumb beneath  the  power  of  Satan  ;  but  as  there  was  no  spirit  of  rebellion 
or  doubt,  this  persuasion  did  not  produce  any  extraordinary  terrorism." 

The  Church  was  disposed  to  confound  heretical  opinion  with 
sorcery ;  false  doctrine  was  especially  the  devil's  work,  and  it 
was  a  ready  conclusion  that  a  denier  or  innovator  had  held 
consultation  with  the  father  of  lies.  It  is  a  saying  of  a  zeal- 
ous Catholic  in  the  sixteenth  century,  quoted  by  Maury  in  his 
excellent  work,  'De  la  Magie' — "  Crescit  cum  magia  hceresis, 
cum  hceresi  magia."  Even  those  who  doubted  were  terrified 
at  their  doubts,  for  trust  is  more  easily  undermined  than  terror. 
Fear  is  earlier  born 'than  hope,  lays  a  stronger  grasp  on  man's 
system  than  any  other  passion,  and  remains  master  of  a  larger 
group  of  involuntary  actions.  A  chief  aspect  of  man's  moral 
development  is  the  slow  subduing  of  fear  by  the  gradual  growth 
of  intelligence,  and  its  suppression  as  a  motive  by  the  presence 
of  impulses  less  animally  selfish ;  so  that  in  relation  to  invis- 
ible Power,  fear  at  last  ceases  to  exist,  save  in  that  interfusion 
with  higher  faculties  which  we  call  awe, 


LECKY'S  HISTORY.  120 

Secondly,  Mr.  Lecky  shows  clearly  that  dogmatic  Protestant- 
ism, holding  the  vivid  belief  in  Satanic  agency  to  be  an  /essen- 
tial of  piety,  would  have  felt  it  shame  to  be  a  whit  behind 
Catholicism  in  severity  against  the  devil's  servants.  Luther's 
sentiment  was  that  he  would  not  suffer  a  witch  to  live  (he  was 
not  much  more  merciful  to  Jews) ;  and,  in  spite  of  his  fond- 
ness for  children,  believing  a  certain  child  to  have  been  begot- 
ten by  the  devil,  he  recommended  the  parents  to  throw  it  into 
the  river.  The  torch  must  be  turned  on  the  worst  errors  of 
heroic  minds — not  in  irreverent  ingratitude,  but  for  the  sake 
of  measuring  our  vast  and  various  debt  to  all  the  influences 
which  have  concurred,  in  the  intervening  ages,  to  make  us 
recognize  as  detestable  errors  the  honest  convictions  of  men 
who,  in  mere  individual  capacity  and  moral  force,  were  very 
much  above  us.  Again,  the  Scotch  Puritans,  during  the 
comparatively  short  period  of  their  ascendency,  surpassed  all 
Christians  before  them  in  the  elaborate  ingenuity  of  the  tor- 
tures they  applied  for  the  discovery  of  witchcraft  and  sorcery, 
and  did  their  utmost  to  prove  that  if  Scotch  Calvinism  was 
the  true  religion,  the  chief  "  note  "  of  the  true  religion  was 
cruelty.  It  is  hardly  an  endurable  task  to  read  the  story  of 
their  doings ;  thoroughly  to  imagine  them  as  a  past  reality  is 
already  a  sort  of  torture.  One  detail  is  enough,  and  it  is  a 
comparatively  mild  one.  It  was  the  regular  profession  of  men 
called  "  prickers  "  to  thrust  long  pins  into  the  body  of  a  sus- 
pected witch  in  order  to  detect  the  insensible  spot  which  was 
the  infallible  sign  of  her  guilt.  On  a  superficial  view  one 
would  be  in  danger  of  saying  that  the  main  difference  between 
the  teachers  who  sanctioned  these  things  and  the  much- 
despised  ancestors  who  offered  human  victims  inside  a  huge 
wicker  idol,  was  that  they  arrived  at  a  more  elaborate  barbar- 
ity by  a  longer  series  of  dependent  propositions.  I  do  not 
share  Mr.  Buckle's  opinion  that  a  Scotch  minister's  groans 
were  a  part  of  his  deliberate  plan  for  keeping  the  people  in  a 
state  of  terrified  subjection;  the  ministers  themselves  held  the 
belief  they  taught,  and  might  well  groan  over  it.  What  a 
blessing  has  a  little  false  logic  been  to  the  world!  Seeing  that 
men  are  so  slow  to  question  their  premises,  they  must  have 
made  each  other  much  more  miserable,  if  pity  had  not  some- 
9 


130  THE  INFLUENCE  OF  RATIONALISM: 

times  drawn  tender  conclusion  not  warranted  by  Major  and 
Minor ;  if  there  had  not  been  people  with  an  amiable  imbecil- 
ity of  reasoning  which  enabled  them  at  once  to  cling  to  hide- 
ous beliefs,  and  to  be  conscientiously  inconsistent  with  them 
in  their  conduct.  There  is  nothing  like  acute  deductive  rea- 
soning for  keeping  a  man  in  the  dark :  it  might  be  called  the 
technique  of  the  intellect,  and  the  concentration  of  the  mind 
upon  it  corresponds  to  that  predominance  of  technical  skill  in 
art  which  ends  in  degradation  of  the  artist's  function,  unless 
new  inspiration  and  invention  come  to  guide  it. 

And  of  this  there  is  some  good  illustration  furnished  by  that 
third  node  in  the  history  of  witchcraft,  the  beginning  of  its 
end,  which  is  treated  in  ?.n  interesting  manner  by  Mr.  Lecky. 
It  is  worth  noticing,  that  the  most  important  defences  of  the 
belief  in  witchcraft,  against  the  growing  scepticism  in  the  lat- 
ter part  of  the  sixteenth  century  and  in  the  seventeenth,  were 
the  productions  of  men  who  in  some  departments  were  among 
the  foremost  thinkers  of  their  time.  One  of  them  was  Jean 
Bodin,  the  famous  writer  on  government  and  jurisprudence, 
whose  "  Republic,"  Hallam  thinks,  had  an  important  influence 
in  England,  and  furnished  "  a  store  of  arguments  and  examples 
that  were  not  lost  on  the  thoughtful  minds  of  our  country- 
men. "  In  some  of  his  views  he  was  original  and  bold ;  for 
example,  he  anticipated  Montesquieu  in  attempting  to  appre- 
ciate the  relations  of  government  and  climate.  Hallam  in- 
clines to  the  opinion  that  he  was  a  Jew,  and  attached  Divine 
authority  only  to  the  Old  Testament.  But  this  was  enough  to 
furnish  him  with  his  chief  data  for  the  existence  of  witches 
and  for  their  capital  punishment;  and  in  the  account  of  his 
"  Republic  "  given  by  Hallam,  there  is  enough  evidence  that 
the  sagacity  which  often  enabled  him  to  make  fine  use  of  his 
learning  was  also  often  entangled  in  it,  to  temper  our  surprise 
at  finding  a  writer  on  political  science  of  whom  it  could  be 
said  that,  along  with  Montesquieu,  he  was  "  the  most  philo- 
sophical of  those  who  had  read  so  deeply,  the  most  learned  of 
those  who  had  thought  so  much,"  in  the  van  of  the  forlorn 
hope  to  maintain  the  reality  of  witchcraft.  It  should  be  said 
that  he  was  equally  confident  of  the  unreality  of  the  Coperni- 
can  hypothesis,  on  the  ground  that  it  was  contrary  to  the  tenets 


LECKY'S  HISTORY.  131 

of  the  theologians  and  philosophers  and  to  common  sense,  and 
therefore  subversive  of  the  foundations  of  every  science.  Of 
his  work  on  witchcraft,  Mr.  Lecky  says : — 

"The  ' De"monomanie  des  Sorciers  '  is  chiefly  an  appeal  to  authority, 
which  the  author  deemed  on  this  subject  so  unanimous  and  so  conclu- 
sive, that  it  was  scarcely  possible  for  any  sane  man  to  resist  it.  He  ap- 
pealed to  the  popular  belief  in  all  countries,  in  all  ages,  and  in  all  re- 
ligions. He  cited  the  opinions  of  an  immense  multitude  of  the  greatest 
writers  of  pagan  antiquity,  and  of  the  most  illustrious  of  the  Fathers. 
He  showed  how  the  laws  of  all  nations  recognized  the  existence  of 
witchcraft;  and  he  collected  hundreds  of  cases  which  had  been  investi- 
gated before  the  tribunals  of  his  own  or  of  other  countries.  He  relates 
•with  the  most  minute  and  circumstantial  detail,  and  with  the  most 
unfaltering  confidence,  all  the  proceedings  at  the  witches'  Sabbath, 
the  methods  which  the  witches  employed  in  transporting  themselves 
through  the  air,  their  transformations,  their  carnal  intercourse  with  the 
Devil,  their  various  means  of  injuring  their  enemies,  the  signs  that  lead 
to  their  detection,  their  confessions  when  condemned,  and  their  de- 
meanor at  the  stake." 

Something  must  be  allowed  for  a  lawyer's  affection  toward 
a  belief  which  had  furnished  so  many  "  cases."  Bodin's  work 
had  been  immediately  prompted  by  the  treatise  "  De  Prestigiis 
Daemonum,"  written  by  John  Wier,  a  German  physician — a 
treatise  which  is  worth  notice  as  an  example  of  a  transitional 
form  of  opinion  for  which  many  analogies  may  be  found  in 
the  history  both  of  religion  and  science.  Wier  believed  in 
demons,  and  in  possession  by  demons,  but  his  practice  as  a 
physician  had  convinced  him  that  the  so-called  witches  were 
patients  and  victims,  that  the  Devil  took  advantage  of  their 
diseased  condition  to  delude  them,  and  that  there  was  no  con- 
sent of  an  evil  will  on  the  part  of  the  women.  He  argued  that 
the  word  in  Leviticus  translated  "witch"  meant  "poisoner," 
and  besought  the  princes  of  Europe  to  hinder  the  further  spill- 
ing of  innocent  blood.  These  heresies  of  Wier  threw  Bodin 
into  such  a  state  of  amazed  indignation,  that  if  he  had  been  an 
ancient  Jew  instead  of  a  modern  economical  one,  he  would  have 
rent  his  garment.  "  No  one  had  ever  heard  of  pardon  being 
accorded  to  sorcerers";  and  probably  the  reason  why  Charles 
IX.  died  young  was  because  he  had  pardoned  the  sorcerer, 
Trois  Echelles!  We  must  remember  that  this  was  in  1581, 
when  the  great  scientific  movement  of  the  Renaissance  had 


132  THE  INFLUENCE  OF  RATIONALISM: 

"hardly  begun — when  Galileo  was  a  youth  of  seventeen,  and 
Kepler  a  boy  of  ten. 

But  directly  afterward,  on  the  other  side,  came  Montaigne, 
whose  sceptical  acuteness  could  arrive  at  negatives  without 
any  apparatus  of  method.  A  certain  keen  narrowness  of  na- 
ture will  secure  a  man  from  many  absurd  beliefs  which  the 
larger  soul,  vibrating  to  more  manifold  influences,  would  have 
a  long  struggle  to  part  with.  And  so  we  find  the  charming, 
chatty  Montaigne — in  one  of  the  brightest  of  his  essays,  "  Des 
Boiteux, "  where  he  declares  that,  from  his  own  observation  of 
witches  and  sorcerers,  he  should-  have  recommended  them  to 
be  treated  with  curative  hellebore — stating  in  his  own  way  a 
pregnant  doctrine,  since  taught  more  gravely.  It  seems  to 
him  much  less  of  a  prodigy  that  men  should  lie,  or  that  their 
imaginations  should  deceive  them,  than  that  a  human  body 
should  be  carried  through  the  air  on  a  broomstick,  or  up  a 
chimney,  by  some  unknown  spirit.  He  thinks  it  a  sad  busi- 
ness to  persuade  one's  self  that  the  test  of  truth  lies  in  the 
multitude  of  believers — "  en  une  presse  oil  les  fols  surpassent 
de  tant  les  sages  en  nombre. "  Ordinarily,  he  has  observed, 
when  men  have  something  stated  to  them  as  a  fact,  they  are 
more  ready  to  explain  it  than  to  inquire  whether  it  is  real: 
"Us  passent  par-dessus  les  propositions,  rnais  ils  examinent 
les  consequences ;  ils  laissent  les  choses,  et  courent  aux  causes. " 
There  is  a  sort  of  strong  and  generous  ignorance  which  is  as 
honorable  and  courageous  as  science — "  ignorance  pour  laquelle 
concevoir  il  n'y  a  pas  moins  de  science  qu'a  concevoir  la 
science."  And  a  propos  of  the  immense  traditional  evidence 
which  weighed  with  such  men  as  Bodin,  he  says :  "  As  for  the 
proofs  and  arguments  founded  on  experience  and  facts,  I  do 
not  pretend  to  unravel  these.  What  end  of  a  thread  is  there 
to  lay  hold  of?  I  often  cut  them  as  Alexander  did  his  knot. 
Apres  tout,  c'est  mettre  ses  conjectures  a  bien  Tiaut  prix,  que 
d'enfaire  cuire  un  homme  tout  vif." 

Writing  like  this,  when  it  finds  eager  readers,  is  a  sign  that 
the  weather  is  changing;  yet  much  later,  namely,  after  1665, 
when  the  Eoyal  Society  had  been  founded,  our  own  Glanvil, 
the  author  of  the  "  Scepsis  Scientifica, "  a  work  that  was  a  re- 
markable advance  toward  a  true  definition  of  the  limits  of 


LECKY'S  HISTORY.  133 

inquiry,  and  that  won  him  his  election  as  fellow  of  the  Soci- 
ety, published  an  energetic  vindication  of  the  belief  in  witch- 
craft, of  which  Mr.  Lecky  gives  the  following  sketch : — 

"  The '  Sadducismus  Triumphatus, '  which  is  probably  the  ablest  book 
ever  published  in  defence  of  the  superstition,  opens  with  a  striking 
picture  of  the  rapid  progress  of  the  scepticism  in  England.  Everywhere 
a  disbelief  in  witchcraft  was  becoming  fashionable  in  the  upper  classes ; 
but  it  was  a  disbelief  that  arose  entirely  from  a  strong  sense  of  its  an- 
tecedent improbability.  All  who  were  opposed  to  the  orthodox  faith 
united  in  discrediting  witchcraft.  They  laughed  at  it,  as  palpably 
absurd,  as  involving  the  most  grotesque  and  ludicrous  conceptions,  as 
so  essentially  incredible  that  it  would  be  a  waste  of  time  to  examine  it. 
This  spirit  had  arisen  since  the  Restoration,  although  the  laws  were 
still  in  force,  and  although  little  or  no  direct  reasoning  had  been  brought 
to  bear  upon  the  subject.  In  order  to  combat  it,  Glanvil  proceeded  to 
examine  the  general  question  of  the  credibility  of  the  miraculous.  He 
saw  that  the  reason  why  witchcraft  was  ridiculed  was,  because  it  was  a 
phase  of  the  miraculous  and  the  work  of  the  Devil ;  that  the  scepticism 
was  chiefly  due  to  those  who  disbelieved  in  miracles  and  the  Devil ;  and 
that  the  instances  of  witchcraft  or  possession  in  the  Bible  were  invari- 
ably placed  on  a  level  with  those  that  were  tried  in  the  law  courts  of 
England.  That  the  evidence  of  the  belief  was  overwhelming,  he  firmly 
believed — and  this,  indeed,  was  scarcely  disputed;  but,  until  the  sense 
of  (t  priori  improbability  was  removed,  no  possible  accumulation  of  facts 
would  cause  men  to  believe  it.  To  that  task  he  accordingly  addressed 
himself.  Anticipating  the  idea  and  almost  the  words  of  modern  con- 
troversialists, he  urged  that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  a  credulity  of  un- 
belief ;  and  that  those  who  believe  so  strange  a  concurrence  of  delusions, 
as  was  necessary  on  the  supposition  of  the  unreality  of  witchcraft,  were 
far  more  credulous  than  those  who  accepted  the  belief.  He  made  his  very 
scepticism  his  principal  weapon  ;  and,  analyzing  with  much  acuteuess 
the  d  priori  objections,  he  showed  that  they  rested  upon  an  unwarrant- 
able confidence  in  our  knowledge  of  the  laws  of  the  spirit  world  ;  that 
they  implied  the  existence  of  some  strict  analogy  between  the  faculties 
of  men  and  of  spirits  ;  and  that,  as  such  analogy  most  probably  did  not 
exist,  no  reasoning  based  on  the  supposition  could  dispense  men  from 
examining  the  evidence.  He  concluded  with  a  large  collection  of  cases, 
the  evidence  of  which  was,  as  he  thought,  incontestable." 

We  have  quoted  this  sketch  because  Glanvil's  argument 
against  the  a  priori  objection  of  absurdity  is  fatiguingly  urged 
in  relation  to  other  alleged  marvels  which,  to  busy  people 
seriously  occupied  with  the  difficulties  of  affairs,  of  science, 
or  of  art,  seem  as  little  worthy  of  examination  as  aeronautic 
broomsticks.  And  also  because  we  here  see  Glanvil,  in  com- 


134  THE  INFLUENCE  OF  RATIONALISM: 

bating  an  incredulity  that  does  not  happen  to  be  his  own, 
wielding  that  very  argument  of  traditional  evidence  which 
he  had  made  the  subject  of  vigorous  attack  in  his  "  Scepsis 
Scientifica."  But  perhaps  large  minds  have  been  peculiarly 
liable  to  this  fluctuation  concerning  the  sphere  of  tradition, 
because,  while  they  have  attacked  its  misapplications,  they 
have  been  the  more  solicited  by  the  vague  sense  that  tradition 
is  really  the  basis  of  our  best  life.  Our  sentiments  may  be 
called  organized  traditions ;  and  a  large  part  of  our  actions 
gather  all  their  justification,  all  their  attraction  and  aroma, 
from  the  memory  of  the  life  lived,  of  the  actions  done,  before 
we  were  born.  In  the  absence  of  any  profound  research  into 
psychological  functions  or  into  the  mysteries  of  inheritance, 
in  the  absence  of  any  comprehensive  view  of  man's  historical 
development  and  the  dependence  of  one  age  on  another,  a 
mind  at  all  rich  in  sensibilities  must  always  have  had  an  in- 
definite uneasiness  in  an  undistinguishing  attack  on  the  coer- 
cive influence  of  tradition.  And  this  may  be  the  apology  for 
the  apparent  inconsistency  of  Glanvil's  acute  criticism  on  the 
one  side,  and  his  indignation  at  the  "looser  gentry,"  who 
laughed  at  the  evidences  for  witchcraft,  on  the  other.  We 
have  already  taken  up  too  much  space  with  this  subject  of 
witchcraft,  else  we  should  be  tempted  to  dwell  on  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  who  far  surpassed  Glanvil  in  magnificent  incongruity 
of  opinion,  and  whose  works  are  the  most  remarkable  combi- 
nation existing,  of  witty  sarcasm  against  ancient  nonsense  and 
modern  obsequiousness,  with  indications  of  a  capacious  credu- 
lity. After  all,  we  may  be  sharing  what  seems  to  us  the  hard- 
ness of  these  men  who  sat  in  their  studies  and  argued  at  their 
ease  about  a  belief  that  would  be  reckoned  to  have  caused  more 
misery  and  bloodshed  than  any  other  superstition,  if  there  had 
been  no  such  thing  as  persecution  on  the  ground  of  religious 
opinion. 

On  this  subject  of  persecution,  Mr.  Lecky  writes  his  best: 
with  clearness  of  conception,  with  calm  justice,  bent  on  ap- 
preciating the  necessary  tendency  of  ideas,  and  with  an  appro- 
priateness of  illustration  that  could  be  supplied  only  by  exten- 
sive and  intelligent  reading.  Persecution,  he  shows,  is  not 
in  any  sense  peculiar  to  the  Catholic  Church;  it  is  a  direct 


LECKY'S  HISTORY.  135 

sequence  of  the  doctrines  that  salvation  is  to  be  had  only 
within  the  Church,  and  that  erroneous  belief  is  damnatory — 
doctrines  held  as  fully  by  Protestant  sects  as  by  the  Catholics ; 
and  in  proportion  to  its  power,  Protestantism  has  been  as  per- 
secuting as  Catholicism.  He  maintains,  in  opposition  to  the 
favorite  modern  notion  of  persecution  defeating  its  own  object, 
that  the  Church,  holding  the  dogma  of  exclusive  salvation,  was 
perfectly  consequent,  and  really  achieved  its  end  of  spreading 
one  belief  and  quenching  another  by  calling  in  the  aid  of  the 
civil  arm.  Who  will  say  that  Governments,  by  their  power 
over  institutions  and  patronage,  as  well  as  over  punishment, 
have  not  power  also  over  the  interests  and  inclinations  of 
men,  and  over  most  of  those  external  conditions  into  which 
subjects  are  born,  and  which  make  them  adopt  the  prevalent 
belief  as  a  second  nature?  Hence,  to  a  sincere  believer  in 
the  doctrine  of  exclusive  salvation,  Governments  had  it  in 
their  power  to  save  men  from  perdition ;  and  wherever  the 
clergy  were  at  the  elbow  of  the  civil  arm,  no  matter  whether 
they  were  Catholic  or  Protestant,  persecution  was  the  result. 
"  Compel  them  to  come  in  "  was  a  rule  that  seemed  sanctioned 
by  mercy,  and  the  horrible  sufferings  it  led  men  to  inflict 
seemed  small  to  minds  accustomed  to  contemplate,  as  a  per- 
petual source  of  motive,  the  eternal  unmitigated  miseries  of  a 
hell  that  was  the  inevitable  destination  of  a  majority  amongst 
mankind. 

It  is  a  significant  fact,  noted  by  Mr.  Lecky,  that  the  only 
two  leaders  of  the  Eeformation  who  advocated  tolerance  were 
Zuinglius  and  Socinus,  both  of  them  disbelievers  in  exclusive 
salvation.  And  in  corroboration  of  other  evidence  that  the 
chief  triumphs  of  the  Reformation  were  due  to  coercion,  he 
commends  to  the  special  attention  of  his  readers  the  following 
quotation  from  a  work  attributed  without  question  to  the 
famous  Protestant  theologian,  Jurieu,  who  had  himself  been 
hindered,  as  a  Protestant,  from  exercising  his  professional 
functions  in  France,  and  was  settled  as  pastor  at  Rotterdam. 
It  should  be  remembered  that  Jurieu' s  labors  fell  in  the  lat- 
ter part  of  the  seventeenth  century  and  in  the  beginning  of 
the  eighteenth,  and  that  he  was  the  contemporary  of  Bayle, 
with  whom  he  was  in  bitter  controversial  hostility.  He  wrote, 


136  THE  INFLUENCE  OF  RATIONALISM: 

then,  at  a  time  when  there  was  warm  debate  on  the  question 
of  Toleration;  and  it  was  his  great  object  to  vindicate  him- 
self and  his  French  fellow-Protestants  from  all  laxity  on  this 
point  :— 

"Peut-on  nierque  le  paganisme  est  tornbe"  dans  le  rnondepar  1'autorite" 
des  empereurs  Remains?  On  peut  assurer  sans  te'me'rite'  que  le  pagan- 
isme  seroit  encore  debout,  et  que  les  trois  quarts  de  PEurope  seroient 
encore  payens  si  Constantin  et  ses  successeurs  n'avaient  employe"  leur 
autorite"  pour  1'abolir.  Mais,  je  vous  prie,  de  quelles  voies  Dieu  s'est-il 
servi  dans  ces  derniers  siecles  pour  re"tablir  la  veritable  religion  dans 
1'Occident?  Les  rois  de  Suede,  ceux  de  Danemarck,  ceux  d' Angleterre, 
les  magistrals  souverains  de  Suisse,  des  Pais  Bos,  des  miles  libres  d'Al- 
lemagne,  les  princes  dlecteurs,  et  autres  princes  souverains  de  rempire, 
n'ont-ils  pas  emploit  leur  autorite  pour  abbattre  le  Papisme  ? " 

Indeed,  wherever  the  tremendous  alternative  of  everlasting 
torments  is  believed  in — believed  in  so  that  it  becomes  a 
motive  determining  the  life — not  only  persecution,  but  every 
other  form  of  severity  and  gloom,  are  the  legitimate  conse- 
quences. There  is  much  ready  declamation  in  these  days 
against  the  spirit  of  asceticism  and  against  zeal  for  doctrinal 
conversion ;  but  surely  the  macerated  form  of  a  Saint  Francis, 
the  fierce  denunciations  of  a  Saint  Dominic,  the  groans  and 
prayerful  wrestlings  of  the  Puritan  who  seasoned  his  bread 
with  tears  and  made  all  pleasurable  sensation  sin,  are  more  in 
keeping  with  the  contemplation  of  unending  anguish  as  the 
destiny  6f  a  vast  multitude  whose  nature  we  share,  than  the 
rubicund  cheerfulness  of  some  modern  divines,  who  profess  to 
unite  a  smiling  liberalism  with  a  well-bred  and  tacit  but  un- 
shaken confidence  in  the  reality  of  the  bottomless  pit.  But 
in  fact,  as  Mr.  Lecky  maintains,  that  awful  image,  with  its 
group  of  associated  dogmas  concerning  the  inherited  curse, 
and  the  damnation  of  unbaptized  infants,  of  heathens,  and  of 
heretics,  has  passed  away  from  what  he  is  fond  of  calling 
"the  realizations"  of  Christendom.  These  things  are  no 
longer  the  objects  of  practical  belief.  They  may  be  mourned 
for  in  encyclical  letters;  bishops  may  regret  them;  doctors 
of  divinity  may  sign  testimonials  to  the  excellent  character 
of  these  decayed  beliefs ;  but  for  the  mass  of  Christians  they 
are  no  more  influential  than  unrepealed  but  forgotten  statutes. 
And  with  these  dogmas  has  melted  away  the  strong  basis  for 


LECKY'S  HISTORY.  137 

the  defence  of  persecution.  No  man  now  writes  eager  vindi- 
cations of  himself  and  his  colleagues  from  the  suspicion  of  ad- 
hering to  the  principle  of  toleration.  And  this  momentous 
change,  it  is  Mr.  Lecky's  object  to  show,  is  due  to  that  con- 
currence of  conditions  which  he  has  chosen  to  call  "  the  ad- 
vance of  the  Spirit  of  Rationalism." 

In  other  parts  of  his  work,  where  he  attempts  to  trace  the 
action  of  the  same  conditions  on  the  acceptance  of  miracles 
and  on  other  chief  phases  of  our  historical  development,  Mr. 
Lecky  has  laid  himself  open  to  considerable  criticism.  The 
chapters  on  the  Miracles  of  the  Church,  the  aesthetic,  scien- 
tific, and  moral  Development  of  Rationalism,  the  Seculariza- 
tion of  Politics,  and  the  Industrial  history  of  Rationalism, 
embrace  a  wide  range  of  diligently  gathered  facts ;  but  they 
are  nowhere  illuminated  by  a  sufficiently  clear  conception  and 
statement  of  the  agencies  at  work,  or  the  mode  of  their  action 
in  the  gradual  modification  of  opinion  and  of  life.  The  writer 
frequently  impresses  us  as  being  in  a  state  of  hesitation  con- 
cerning his  own  standing-point,  which  may  form  a  desirable 
stage  in  private  meditation  but  not  in  published  exposition. 
Certain  epochs  in  theoretic  conception,  certain  considerations, 
which  should  be  fundamental  to  his  survey,  are  introduced 
quite  incidentally  in  a  sentence  or  two,  or  in  a  note  which 
seems  to  be  an  afterthought.  Great  writers  and  their  ideas 
are  touched  upon  too  slightly  and  with  too  little  discrimina- 
tion, and  important  theories  are  sometimes  characterized  with 
a  rashness  which  conscientious  revision  will  correct.  There 
is  a  fatiguing  use  of  vague  or  shifting  phrases,  such  as  "  mod- 
ern civilization,"  "spirit  of  the  age,"  "tone  of  thought,"  "in- 
tellectual type  of  the  age,"  "  bias  of  the  imagination,"  "  habits 
of  religious  thought,"  unbalanced  by  any  precise  definition; 
and  the  spirit  of  rationalism  is  sometimes  treated  of  as  if  it 
lay  outside  the  specific  mental  activities  of  which  it  is  a  gen- 
eralized expression.  Mr.  Curdle' s  famous  definition  of  the 
dramatic  unities  as  "  a  sort  of  a  general  oneness,"  is  not  totally 
false ;  but  such  lurninousness  as  it  has  could  only  be  perceived 
by  those  who  already  knew  what  the  unities  were.  Mr.  Lecky 
has  the  advantage  of  being  strongly  impressed  with  the  great 
part  played  by  the  emotions  in  the  formation  of  opinion,  and 


138  THE  INFLUENCE  OF  RATIONALISM. 

with  the  high  complexity  of  the  causes  at  work  in  social  evo- 
lution; but  he  frequently  writes  as  if  he  had  never  yet  distin- 
guished between  the  complexity  of  the  conditions  that  produce 
prevalent  states  of  mind,  and  the  inability  of  particular  minds 
to  give  distinct  reasons  for  the  preferences  or  persuasions  pro- 
duced by  those  states.  In  brief,  he  does  not  discriminate,  or 
does  not  help  his  reader  to  discriminate,  between  objective 
complexity  and  subjective  confusion.  But  the  most  muddle- 
headed  gentleman  who  represents  the  spirit  of  the  age  by 
observing,  as  he  settles  his  collar,  that  the  development-theory 
is  quite  "the  thing,"  is  a  result  of  definite  processes,  if  we 
could  only  trace  them.  "  Mental  attitudes  "  and  "  predisposi- 
tions, "  however  vague  in  consciousness,  have  not  vague  causes, 
any  more  than  the  "  blind  motions  of  the  spring  "  in  plants 
and  animals. 

The  word  "Rationalism"  has  the  misfortune,  shared  by 
most  words  in  this  gray  world,  of  being  somewhat  equivocal. 
This  evil  may  be  nearly  overcome  by  careful  preliminary 
definition ;  but  Mr.  Lecky  does  not  supply  this,  and  the  origi- 
nal specific  application  of  the  word  to  a  particular  phase  of 
Biblical  interpretation  seems  to  have  clung  about  his  use  of  it 
with  a  misleading  effect.  Through  some  parts  of  his  book  he 
appears  to  regard  the  grand  characteristic  of  modern  thought 
and  civilization,  compared  with  ancient,  as  a  radiation  in  the 
first  instance  from  a  change  iu  religious  conceptions.  The 
supremely  important  fact,  that  the  gradual  reduction  of  all 
phenomena  within  the  sphere  of  established  law,  which  carries 
as  a  consequence  the  rejection  of  the  miraculous,  has  its  de- 
termining current  in  the  development  of  physical  science, 
seems  to  have  engaged  comparatively  little  of  his  attention ; 
at  least,  he  gives  it  no  prominence.  The  great  conception  of 
universal  regular  sequence,  without  partiality  and  without 
caprice — the  conception  which  is  the  most  potent  force  at 
work  in  the  modification  of  our  faith,  and  of  the  practical 
form  given  to  our  sentiments — could  only  grow  out  of  that 
patient  watching  of  external  fact,  and  that  silencing  of  pre- 
conceived notions,  which  are  urged  upon  the  mind  by  the 
problems  of  physical  science. 


THE   NATURAL   HISTORY  OF   GERMAN  LIFE: 
RIEHL. 

IT  is  an  interesting  branch  of  psychological  observation  to 
note  the  images  that  are  habitually  associated  with  abstract 
or  collective  terms — what  may  be  called  the  picture-writ- 
ing of  the  mind,  which  it  carries  on  concurrently  with  the 
more  subtle  symbolism  of  language.  Perhaps  the  fixity  or 
variety  of  these  associated  images  would  furnish  a  tolerably 
fair  test  of  the  amount  of  concrete  knowledge  and  experience 
which  a  given  word  represents,  in  the  minds  of  two  persons 
who  use  it  with  equal  familiarity.  The  word  railways,  for 
example,  will  probably  call  up,  in  the  mind  of  a  man  who  is 
not  highly  locomotive,  the  image  either  of  a  "  Bradshaw, "  or 
of  the  station  with  which  he  is  most  familiar,  or  of  an  in- 
definite length  of  tram-road;  he  will  alternate  between  these 
three  images,  which  represent  his  stock  of  concrete  acquaint- 
ance with  railways.  But  suppose  a  man  to  have  had  succes- 
sively the  experience  of  a  "  navvy, "  an  engineer,  a  traveller,  a 
railway  director  and  shareholder,  and  a  landed  proprietor  in 
treaty  with  a  railway  company,  and  it  is  probable  that  the 
range  of  images  which  would  by  turns  present  themselves  to 
his  mind  at  the  mention  of  the  word  "  railways,"  would  include 
all  the  essential  facts  in  the  existence  and  relations  of  the  thing. 
Now  it  is  possible  for  the  first-mentioned  personage  to  enter- 
tain very  expanded  views  as  to  the  multiplication  of  railways 
in  the  abstract,  and  their  ultimate  function  in  civilization. 
He  may  talk  of  a  vast  network  of  railways  stretching  over  the 
globe,  of  future  "  lines  "  in  Madagascar,  and  elegant  refresh- 
ment-rooms in  the  Sandwich  Islands,  with  none  the  less  glib- 
ness  because  his  distinct  conceptions  on  the  subject  do  not 
extend  beyond  his  one  station  and  his  indefinite  length  of 
tram-road.  But  it  is  evident  that  if  we  want  a  railway  to  be 


140       THE  NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  GERMAN  LIFE. 

made,  or  its  affairs  to  be  managed,  this  man  of  wide  views 
and  narrow  observation  will  not  serve  our  purpose. 

Probably,  if  we  could  ascertain  the  images  called  up  by  the 
terms  "  the  people, "  "  the  masses, "  "  the  proletariat, "  "  the 
peasantry,"  by  many  who  theorize  on  those  bodies  with  elo- 
quence, or  who  legislate  for  them  without  eloquence,  we 
should  find  that  they  indicate  almost  as  small  an  amount 
of  concrete  knowledge — that  they  are  as  far  from  completely 
representing  the  complex  facts  summed  up  in  the  collective 
term,  as  the  railway  images  of  our  non-locomotive  gentleman. 
How  little  the  real  characteristics  of  the  working  classes  are 
known  to  those  who  are  outside  them,  how  little  their  natural 
history  has  been  studied,  is  sufficiently  disclosed  by  our  Art 
as  well  as  by  our  political  and  social  theories.  Where,  in  our 
picture  exhibitions,  shall  we  find  a  group  of  true  peasantry? 
What  English  artist  even  attempts  to  rival  in  truthfulness 
such  studies  of  popular  life  as  the  pictures  of  Teniers  or  the 
ragged  boys  of  Murillo?  Even  one  of  the  greatest  painters  of 
the  pre-eminently  realistic  school,  while,  in  his  picture  of 
"The  Hireling  Shepherd,"  he  gave  us  a  landscape  of  marvel- 
lous truthfulness,  placed  a  pair  of  peasants  in  the  foreground 
who  were  not  much  more  real  than  the  idyllic  swains  and 
damsels  of  our  chimney  ornaments.  Only  a  total  absence  of 
acquaintance  and  sympathy  with  our  peasantry  could  give  a 
moment's  popularity  to  such  a  picture  as  "Cross  Purposes," 
where  we  have  a  peasant  girl  who  looks  as  if  she  knew  L.  E. 
L.'s  poems  by  heart,  and  English  rustics,  whose  costume 
seems  to  indicate  that  they  are  meant  for  ploughmen,  with 
exotic  features  that  remind  us  of  a  handsome  primo  tenore, 
Eather  than  such  Cockney  sentimentality  as  this,  as  an  edu- 
cation for  the  taste  and  sympathies,  we  prefer  the  most  crap- 
ulous group  of  boors  that  Teniers  ever  painted.  But  even 
those  among  our  painters  who  aim  at  giving  the  rustic  type  of 
features,  who  are  far  above  the  effeminate  feebleness  of  the 
"  Keepsake  "  style,  treat  their  subjects  under  the  influence  of 
traditions  and  prepossessions  rather  than  of  direct  observa- 
tion. The  notion  that  peasants  are  joyous,  that  the  typical 
moment  to  represent  a  man  in  a  smock-frock  is  when  he  is 
cracking  a  joke  and  showing  a  row  of  sound  teeth,  that  cot* 


RIEHL.  141 

tage  matrons  are  usually  buxom,  and  village  children  neces- 
sarily rosy  and  merry,  are  prejudices  difficult  to  dislodge  from 
the  artistic  mind,  which  looks  for  its  subjects  into  literature 
instead  of  life.  The  painter  is  still  under  the  influence  of 
idyllic  literature,  which  has  always  expressed  the  imagination 
of  the  cultivated  and  town-bred,  rather  than  the  truth  of  rus- 
tic life.  Idyllic  ploughmen  are  jocund  when  they  drive  their 
team  afield ;  idyllic  shepherds  make  bashful  love  under  haw- 
thorn-bushes ;  idyllic  villagers  dance  in  the  checkered  shade 
and  refresh  themselves,  not  immoderately,  with  spicy  nut- 
brown  ale.  But  no  one  who  has  seen  much  of  actual  plough- 
men thinks  them  jocund;  no  one  who  is  well  acquainted  with 
the  English  peasantry  can  pronounce  them  merry.  The  slow 
gaze,  in  which  no  sense  of  beauty  beams,  no  humor  twinkles, 
• — the  slow  utterance,  and  the  heavy  slouching  walk,  remind 
one  rather  of  that  melancholy  animal  the  camel,  than  of  the 
sturdy  countryman,  with  striped  stockings,  red  waistcoat,  and 
hat  aside,  who  represents  the  traditional  English  peasant. 
Observe  a  company  of  haymakers.  When  you  see  them  at  a 
distance,  tossing  up  the  forkfuls  of  hay  in  the  golden  light, 
while  the  wagon  creeps  slowly  with  its  increasing  burden  over 
the  meadow,  and  the  bright  green  space  which  tells  of  work 
done  gets  larger  and  larger,  you  pronounce  the  scene  "  smil- 
ing," and  you  think  these  companions  in  labor  must  be  as 
bright  and  cheerful  as  the  picture  to  which  they  give  anima- 
tion. Approach  nearer,  and  you  will  certainly  find  that  hay- 
making-time is  a  time  for  joking,  especially  if  there  are 
women  among  the  laborers ;  but  the  coarse  laugh  that  bursts 
out  every  now  and  then,  and  expresses  the  triumphant  taunt, 
is  as  far  as  possible  from  your  conception  of  idyllic  merriment. 
That  delicious  effervescence  of  the  mind  which  we  call  fun  has 
no  equivalent  for  the  northern  peasant,  except  tipsy  revelry ; 
the  only  realm  of  fancy  and  imagination  for  the  English  clown 
exists  at  the  bottom  of  the  third  quart-pot. 

The  conventional  countryman  of  the  stage,  who  picks  up 
pocket-books  and  never  looks  into  them,  and  who  is  too  sim- 
ple even  to  know  that  honesty  has  its  opposite,  represents  the 
still  lingering  mistake,  that  an  unintelligible  dialect  is  a  guar- 
anty for  ingenuousness,  and  that  slouching  shoulders  indicate 


142       THE  NATURAL   HISTORY  OF  GERMAN  LIFE: 

an  upright  disposition.  It  is  quite  true  that  a  thresher  is 
likely  to  be  innocent  of  any  adroit  arithmetical  cheating,  but 
he  is  not  the  less  likely  to  carry  home  his  master's  corn  in  his 
shoes  and  pocket;  a  reaper  is  not  given  to  writing  begging- 
letters,  but  he  is  quite  capable  of  cajoling  the  dairymaid  into 
filling  his  small-beer  bottle  with  ale.  The  selfish  instincts 
are  not  subdued  by  the  sight  of  buttercups,  nor  is  integrity  in 
the  least  established  by  that  classic  rural  occupation,  sheep- 
washing.  To  make  men  moral,  something  more  is  requisite 
than  to  turn  them  out  to  grass. 

Opera  peasants,  whose  unreality  excites  Mr.  Ruskin's  in- 
dignation, are  surely  too  frank  an  idealization  to  be  mislead- 
ing; and  since  popular  chorus  is  one  of  the  most  effective 
elements  of  the  opera,  we  can  hardly  object  to  lyrio  rustics  in 
elegant  laced  bodices  and  picturesque  motley,  unless  we  are 
prepared  to  advocate  a  chorus  of  colliers  in  their  pit  costume, 
or  a  ballet  of  charwomen  and  stocking- weavers.  But  our  so- 
cial novels  profess  to  represent  the  people  as  they  are,  and  the 
unreality  of  their  representations  is  a  grave  evil.  The  greatest 
benefit  we  owe  to  the  artist,  whether  painter,  poet,  or  novel- 
ist, is  the  extension  of  our  sympathies.  Appeals  founded  on 
generalizations  and  statistics  require  a  sympathy  ready-made, 
a  moral  sentiment  already  in  activity ;  but  a  picture  of  human 
life  such  as  a  great  artist  can  give,  surprises  even  the  trivial 
and  the  selfish  into  that  attention  to  what  is  apart  from  them- 
selves, which  may  be  called  the  raw  material  of  moral  senti- 
ment. When  Scott  takes  us  into  Luckie  Mucklebackit's 
cottage,  or  tells  the  story  of  "The  Two  Drovers," — when 
Wordsworth  sings  to  us  the  reverie  of  "Poor  Susan," — when 
Kingsley  shows  us  Alton  Locke  gazing  yearningly  over  the 
gate  which  leads  from  the  highway  into  the  first  wood  he  ever 
saw, — when  Hornung  paints  a  group  of  chimney-sweepers,— 
more  is  done  toward  linking  the  higher  classes  with  the  lower, 
toward  obliterating  the  vulgarity  of  exclusiveness,  than  by 
hundreds  of  sermons  and  philosophical  dissertations.  Art  is 
the  nearest  thing  to  life ;  it  is  a  mode  of  amplifying  experi- 
ence and  extending  our  contact  with  our  fellow-men  beyond 
the  bounds  of  our  personal  lot.  All  the  more  sacred  is  the 
task  of  the  artist  when  he  undertakes  to  paint  the  life  of  the 


KEEHL.  143 

People.  Falsification  here  is  far  more  pernicious  than  in  the 
more  artificial  aspects  of  life.  It  is  not  so  very  serious  that 
we  should  have  false  ideas  about  evanescent  fashions — about 
the  manners  and  conversation  of  beaux  and  duchesses ;  but  it 
is  serious  that  our  sympathy  with  the  perennial  joys  and 
struggles,  the  toil,  the  tragedy,  and  the  humor  in  the  life  of 
our  more  heavily  laden  fellow-men,  should  be  perverted,  and 
turned  toward  a  false  object  instead  of  the  true  one. 

This  perversion  is  not  the  less  fatal  because  the  misrepre- 
sentation which  gives  rise  to  it  has  what  the  artist  considers 
a  moral  end.  The  thing  for  mankind  to  know  is,  not  what 
are  the  motives  and  influences  which  the  moralist  thinks  ought 
to  act  on  the  laborer  or  the  artisan,  but  what  are  the  motives 
and  influences  which  do  act  on  him.  We  want  to  be  taught  to 
feel,  not  for  the  heroic  artisan  or  the  sentimental  peasant,  but 
for  the  peasant  in  all  his  coarse  apathy,  and  the  artisan  in  all 
his  suspicious  selfishness. 

We  have  one  great  novelist  who  is  gifted  with  the  utmost 
power  of  rendering  the  external  traits  of  our  town  population ; 
and  if  he  could  give  us  their  psychological  character — their 
conceptions  of  life,  and  their  emotions — with  the  same  truth 
as  their  idiom  and  manners,  his  books  would  be  the  greatest 
contribution  Art  has  ever  made  to  the  awakening  of  social 
sympathies.  But  while  he  can  copy  Mrs.  Flemish's  colloquial 
style  with  the  delicate  accuracy  of  a  sun-picture,  while  there 
is  the  same  startling  inspiration  in  his  description  of  the  ges- 
tures and  phrases  of  "Boots,"  as  in  the  speeches  of  Shake- 
speare's mobs  or  numskulls,  he  scarcely  ever  passes  from  the 
humorous  and  external  to  the  emotional  and  tragic,  without 
becoming  as  transcendent  in  his  unreality  as  he  was  a  moment 
before  in  his  artistic  truthfulness.  But  for  the  precious  salt 
of  his  humor,  which  compels  him  to  reproduce  external  traits 
that  serve,  in  some  degree,  as  a  corrective  to  his  frequently 
false  psychology,  his  preternaturally  virtuous  poor  children 
and  artisans,  his  melodramatic  boatmen  and  courtesans,  would 
be  as  noxious  as  Eugene  Sue's  idealized  proletaires  in  encour- 
aging the  miserable  fallacy  that  high  morality  and  refined 
sentiment  can  grow  out  of  harsh  social  relations,  ignorance, 
and  want ;  or  that  the  working  classes  are  in  a  condition  to 


144       THE  NATURAL   HISTORY   OF  GERMAN  LIFE: 

enter  at  once  into  a  millennial  state  of  altruism,  wherein  every 
one  is  caring  for  every  one  else,  and  no  one  for  himself. 

If  we  need  a  true  conception  of  the  popular  character  to 
guide  our  sympathies  rightly,  we  need  it  equally  to  check  our 
theories,  and  direct  us  in  their  application.  The  tendency 
created  by  the  splendid  conquests  of  modern  generalization, 
to  believe  that  all  social  questions  are  merged  in  economical 
science,  and  that  the  relations  of  men  to  their  neighbors  may 
be  settled  by  algebraic  equations, — the  dream  that  the  uncul- 
tured classes  are  prepared  for  a  condition  which  appeals  prin- 
cipally to  their  moral  sensibilities, — the  aristocratic  dilettante- 
ism  which  attempts  to  restore  the  "good  old  times"  by  a  sort 
of  idyllic  masquerading,  and  to  grow  feudal  fidelity  and  vener- 
ation as  we  grow  prize  turnips,  by  an  artificial  system  of  cul- 
ture,— none  of  these  diverging  mistakes  can  coexist  with  a  real 
knowledge  of  the  People,  with  a  thorough  study  of  their  hab- 
its, their  ideas,  their  motives.  The  land-holder,  the  clergy- 
man, the  mill-owner,  the  mining-agent,  have  each  an  oppor- 
tunity for  making  precious  observations  on  different  sections 
of  the  working  classes;  but  unfortunately  their  experience  is 
too  often  not  registered  at  all,  or  its  results  are  too  scattered 
to  be  available  as  a  source  of  information  and  stimulus  to  the 
public  mind  generally.  If  any  man  of  sufficient  moral  and 
intellectual  breadth,  whose  observations  would  not  be  vitiated 
by  a  foregone  conclusion,  or  by  a  professional  point  of  view, 
would  devote  himself  to  studying  the  natural  history  of  our 
social  classes,  especially  of  the  small  shopkeepers,  artisans, 
and  peasantry, — the  degree  in  which  they  are  influenced  by 
local  conditions,  their  maxims  and  habits,  the  points  of  view 
from  which  they  regard  their  religious  teachers,  and  the  de- 
gree in  which  they  are  influenced  by  religious  doctrines,  the 
interaction  of  the  various  classes  on  each  other,  and  what 
are  the  tendencies  in  their  position  toward  disintegration  or 
toward  development, — and  if,  after  all  this  study,  he  would 
give  us  the  result  of  his  observations  in  a  book  well  nourished 
with  specific  facts,  his  work  would  be  a  valuable  aid  to  the 
social  and  political  reformer. 

What  we  are  desiring  for  ourselves  has  been  in  some  degree 
done  for  the  Germans  by  Biehl,  the  author  of  the  very  re- 


RIEHL.  145 

raarkable  books  the  titles  of  which  are  placed  at  the  bottom  of 
this  page ; '  and  we  wish  to  make  these  books  known  to  our 
readers,  not  only  for  the  sake  of  the  interesting  matter  they 
contain  and  the  important  reflections  they  suggest,  but  also  as 
a  model  for  some  future  or  actual  student  of  our  own  people. 
By  way  of  introducing  Riehl  to  those  who  are  unacquainted 
with  his  writings,  we  will  give  a  rapid  sketch  from  his  pic- 
ture of  the  German  Peasantry,  and  perhaps  this  indication  of 
the  mode  in  which  he  treats  a  particular  branch  of  his  subject 
may  prepare  them  to  follow  us  with  more  interest  when  we 
enter  on  the  general  purpose  and  contents  of  his  works. 

In  England,  at  present,  when  we  speak  of  the  peasantry, 
we  mean  scarcely  more  than  the  class  of  farm-servants  and 
farm-laborers ;  and  it  is  only  in  the  most  primitive  districts — 
as  in  Wales,  for  example — that  farmers  are  included  under 
the  term.  In  order  to  appreciate  what  Riehl  says  of  the  Ger- 
man peasantry,  we  must  remember  what  the  tenant-farmers 
and  small  proprietors  were  in  England  half  a  century  ago, 
when  the  master  helped  to  milk  his  own  cows,  and  the  daugh- 
ters got  up  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  to  brew, — when  the 
family  dined  in  the  kitchen  with  the  servants,  and  sat  with 
them  round  the  kitchen  fire  in  the  evening.  In  those  days 
the  quarried  parlor  was  innocent  of  a  carpet,  and  its  only 
specimens  of  art  were  a  framed  sampler  and  the  best  tea- 
board;  the  daughters  even  of  substantial  farmers  had  often 
no  greater  accomplishment  in  writing  and  spelling  than  they 
could  procure  at  a  dame-school ;  and,  instead  of  carrying  on 
sentimental  correspondence,  they  were  spinning  their  future 
table-linen,  and  looking  after  every  saving  in  butter  and  eggs 
that  might  enable  them  to  add  to  the  little  stock  of  plate  and 
china  which  they  were  laying  in  against  their  marriage.  In 
our  own  day,  setting  aside  the  superior  order  of  farmers, 
whose  style  of  living  and  mental  culture  are  often  equal  to 
that  of  the  professional  class  in  provincial  towns,  we  can 
hardly  enter  the  least  imposing  farmhouse  without  finding  a 
bad  piano  in  the  "  drawing-room,"  and  some  old  annuals,  dis- 
posed with  a  symmetrical  imitation  of  negligence,  on  the  table; 

lDie  Burgerliche  Gesellschaft.  Von  W.  H.  Riebl.  Dritte  Auflage, 
1856.  Land  und  Leide.  Von  W.  H.  Riehl.  Dritte  Auflage,  185(5. 

10 


146      THE  NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  GERMAN  LIFE: 

though  the  daughters  may  still  drop  their  A's,  their  vowels  are 
studiously  narrow;  and  it  is  only  in  very  primitive  regions 
that  they  will  consent  to  sit  in  a  covered  vehicle  without 
springs,  which  was  once  thought  an  advance  in  luxury  on  the 
pillion. 

The  condition  of  the  tenant-farmers  and  small  proprietors 
in  Germany  is,  we  imagine,  about  on  a  par,  not,  certainly,  in 
material  prosperity,  but  in  mental  culture  and  habits,  with 
that  of  the  English  farmers  who  were  beginning  to  be  thought 
old-fashioned  nearly  fifty  years  ago ;  and  if  we  add  to  these 
the  farm-servants  and  laborers,  we  shall  have  a  class  approxi- 
mating in  its  characteristics  to  the  Bauernthum,  or  peasantry," 
described  by  Biehl. 

In  Germany,  perhaps  more  than  in  any  other  country,  it  is 
among  the  peasantry  that  we  must  look  for  the  historical  type 
of  the  national  physique.  In  the  towns  this  type  has  become 
so  modified  to  express  the  personality  of  the  individual,  that 
even  "  family  likeness  "  is  often  but  faintly  marked.  But  the 
peasants  may  still  be  distinguished  into  groups  by  their  physi- 
cal peculiarities.  In  one  part  of  the  country  we  find  a  longer- 
legged,  in  another  a  broader-shouldered  race,  which  has  inher- 
ited these  peculiarities  for  centuries.  For  example,  in  certain 
districts  of  Hesse  are  seen  long  faces,  with  high  foreheads, 
long  straight  noses,  and  small  eyes  with  arched  eyebrows  and 
large  eyelids.  On  comparing  these  physiognomies  with  the 
sculptures  in  the  church  of  St.  Elizabeth,  at  Marburg,  exe- 
cuted in  the  thirteenth  century,  it  will  be  found  that  the  same 
old  Hessian  type  has  subsisted  unchanged,  with  this  distinc- 
tion only,  that  the  sculptures  represent  princes  and  nobles, 
whose  features  then  bore  the  stamp  of  their  race,  while  that 
stamp  is  now  to  be  found  only  among  the  peasants.  A  painter 
who  wants  to  draw  mediseval  characters  with  historic  truth, 
must  seek  his  models  among  the  peasantry.  This  explains 
why  the  old  German  painters  gave  the  heads  of  their  subjects 
a  greater  uniformity  of  type  than  the  painters  of  our  day; 
the  race  had  not  attained  to  a  high  degree  of  individualiza- 
tion  in  features  and  expression.  It  indicates,  too,  that  the 
cultured  man  acts  more  as  an  individual ;  the  peasant,  more 
as  one  of  a  group.  Hans  drives  the  plough,  lives,  and  thinks 


RIEHL.  147 

just  as  Kuiiz  does ;  and  it  is  this  fact,  that  many  thousands 
of  men  are  as  like  each  other  in  thoughts  and  habits  as  so 
many  sheep  or  oysters,  which  constitutes  the  weight  of  the 
peasantry  in  the  social  and  political  scale. 

In  the  cultivated  world  each  individual  has  his  style  of 
speaking  and  writing.  But  among  the  peasantry  it  is  the 
race,  the  district,  the  province,  that  has  its  style — namely,  its 
dialect,  its  phraseology,  its  proverbs,  and  its  songs,  which  be- 
long alike  to  the  entire  body  of  the  people.  This  provincial 
style  of  the  peasant  is  again,  like  his  physique,  a  remnant  of 
history  to  which  he  clings  with  the  utmost  tenacity.  In  cer- 
tain parts  of  Hungary,  there  are  still  descendants  of  German 
colonists  of  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries,  who  go  about 
the  country  as  reapers,  retaining  their  old  Saxon  songs  and 
manners,  while  the  more  cultivated  German  emigrants  in  a 
very  short  time  forget  their  own  language,  and  speak  Hun- 
garian. Another  remarkable  case  of  the  same  kind  is  that  of 
the  Wends,  a  Sclavonic  race  settled  in  Lusatia,  whose  num- 
bers amount  to  200,000,  living  either  scattered  among  the 
German  population  or  in  separate  parishes.  They  have  their 
own  schools  and  churches,  and  are  taught  in  the  Sclavonic 
tongue.  The  Catholics  among  them  are  rigid  adherents  of 
the  Pope ;  the  Protestants  not  less  rigid  adherents  of  Luther, 
or  Doctor  Luther,  as  they  are  particular  in  calling  him — a 
custom  which,  a  hundred  years  ago,  was  universal  in  Protes- 
tant Germany.  The  Wend  clings  tenaciously  to  the  usages 
of  his  Church,  and  perhaps  this  may  contribute  not  a  little 
to  the  purity  in  which  he  maintains  the  specific  characteris- 
tics of  his  race.  German  education,  German  law  and  govern- 
ment, service  in  the  standing  army,  and  many  other  agencies, 
are  in  antagonism  to  his  national  exclusiveness ;  but  the  wives 
and  mothers  here,  as  elsewhere,  are  a  conservative  influence, 
and  the  habits  temporarily  laid  aside  in  the  outer  world  are 
recovered  by  the  fireside.  The  Wends  form  several  stout 
regiments  in  the  Saxou  army ;  they  are  sought  far  and  wide, 
as  diligent  and  honest  servants ;  and  many  a  weakly  Dresden 
or  Leipzig  child  becomes  thriving  under  the  care  of  a  Wendish 
nurse.  In  their  villages  they  have  the  air  and  habits  of  gen- 
uine, sturdy  peasants,  and  all  their  customs  indicate  that  they 


148       THE  NATURAL  HISTORY   OF  GERMAN  LIFE: 

have  been,  from  the  first,  an  agricultural  people.  For  exam- 
ple, they  have  traditional  modes  of  treating  their  domestic 
animals.  Each  co\7  has  its  own  name,  generally  chosen  care- 
fully, so  as  to  express  the  special  qualities  of  the  animal ;  and 
all  important  family  events  are  narrated  to  the  bees — a  custom 
which  is  found  also  in  Westphalia.  Whether  by  the  help  of 
the  bees  or  not,  the  Wend  farming  is  especially  prosperous; 
and  when  a  poor  Bohemian  peasant  has  a  son  born  to  him,  he 
binds  him  to  the  end  of  a  long  pole  and  turns  his  face  tow- 
ard Lusatia,  that  he  may  be  as  lucky  as  the  Wends  who  live 
there. 

The  peculiarity  of  the  peasant's  language  consists  chiefly 
in  his  retention  of  historical  peculiarities,  which  gradually 
disappear  under  the  friction  of  cultivated  circles.  He  prefers 
any  proper  name  that  may  be  given  to  a  day  in  the  calendar, 
rather  than  the  abstract  date,  by  which  he  very  rarely  reckons. 
In  the  baptismal  names  of  his  children  he  is  guided  by  the  old 
custom  of  the  country,  not  at  all  by  whim  and  fancy.  Many 
old  baptismal  names,  formerly  common  in  Germany,  would 
have  become  extinct  but  for  their  preservation  among  the 
peasantry,  especially  in  North  Germany ;  and  so  firmly  have 
they  adhered  to  local  tradition  in  this  matter,  that  it  would  be 
possible  to  give  a  sort  of  topographical  statistics  of  proper 
names,  and  distinguish  a  district  by  its  rustic  names  as  we  do 
by  its  Flora  and  Fauna.  The  continuous  inheritance  of  cer- 
tain favorite  proper  names  in  a  family,  in  some  districts,  forces 
the  peasant  to  adopt  the  princely  custom  of  attaching  a  nu- 
meral to  the  name,  and  saying,  when  three  generations  are 
living  at  once,  Hans  I.,  II.,  and  III. ;  or,  in  the  more  an- 
tique fashion,  Hans  the  elder,  the  middle,  and  the  younger. 
In  some  of  our  English  counties  there  is  a  similar  adherence 
to  a  narrow  range  of  proper  names ;  and  as  a  mode  of  distin- 
guishing collateral  branches  in  the  same  family,  you  will  hear 
of  Jonathan's  Bess,  Thomas's  Bess,  and  Samuel's  Bess — the 
three  Bessies  being  cousins. 

The  peasant's  adherence  to  the  traditional  has  much  greater 
inconvenience  than  that  entailed  by  a  paucity  of  proper  names. 
In  the  Black  Forest  and  in  Hiittenberg  you  will  see  him  in  the 
dog-days  wearing  a  thick  fur  cap,  because  it  is  a  historical  fur 


RIEHL.  149 

cap — a  cap  worn  by  his  grandfather.  In  the  Wetterau,  that 
peasant  girl  is  considered  the  handsomest  who  wears  the  most 
petticoats.  To  go  to  field-labor  in  seven  petticoats  can  be 
anything  but  convenient  or  agreeable,  but  it  is  the  tradition- 
ally correct  thing;  and  a  German  peasant  girl  would  think 
herself  as  unfavorably  conspicuous  in  an  untraditional  cos- 
tume as  an  English  servant-girl  would  now  think  herself  in  a 
"  linsey-woolsey  "  apron  or  a  thick  muslin  cap.  In  many  dis- 
tricts no  medical  advice  would  induce  the  rustic  to  renounce 
the  tight  leather  belt  with  which  he  injures  his  digestive 
functions;  you  could  more  easily  persuade  him  to  smile  on  a 
new  communal  system  than  on  the  unhistorical  invention  of 
braces.  In  the  eighteenth  century,  in  spite  of  the  philan- 
thropic preachers  of  potatoes,  the  peasant  for  years  threw  his 
potatoes  to  the  pigs  and  the  dogs,  before  he  could  be  persuaded 
to  put  them  on  his  own  table.  However,  the  unwillingness  of 
the  peasant  to  adopt  innovations  has  a  not  unreasonable  foun- 
dation in  the  fact,  that  for  him  experiments  are  practical,  not 
theoretical,  and  must  be  made  with  expense  of  money  instead 
of  brains — a  fact  that  is  not,  perhaps,  sufficiently  taken  into 
account  by  agricultural  theorists,  who  complain  of  the  farm- 
er's obstinacy.  The  peasant  has  the  smallest  possible  faith 
in  theoretic  knowledge;  he  thinks  it  rather  dangerous  than 
otherwise,  as  is  well  indicated  by  a  Lower  Rhenish  proverb  : 
"One  is  never -too  old  to  learn,  said  an  old  woman;  so  she 
learned  to  be  a  witch. " 

Between  many  villages  an  historical  feud — once  perhaps  the 
occasion  of  much  bloodshed — is  still  kept  up  under  the  milder 
form  of  an  occasional  round  of  cudgelling,  and  the  launching 
of  traditional  nicknames.  An  historical  feud  of  this  kind 
still  exists,  for  example,  among  many  villages  on  the  Rhine 
and  more  inland  places  in  the  neighborhood.  Hheinschnacke 
(of  which  the  equivalent  is  perhaps  "  water-snake ")  is  the 
standing  term  of  ignominy  for  the  inhabitant  of  the  Rhine 
village,  who  repays  it  in  kind  by  the  epithet  "  karst "  (mat- 
tock) or  "kukuk"  (cuckoo),  according  as  the  object  of  his 
hereditary  hatred  belongs  to  the  field  or  the  forest.  If  any 
Romeo  among  the  "  mattocks  "  were  to  marry  a  Juliet  among 
the  "  water-snakes, "  there  would  be  no  lack  of  Tybalts  and 


150      THE  NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  GERMAN  LIFE: 

Mercutios  to  carry  the  conflict  from  words  to  blows,  though, 
neither  side  knows  a  reason  for  the  enmity. 

A  droll  instance  of  peasant  conservatism  is  told  of  a  village 
on  the  Taunus,  whose  inhabitants  from  time  immemorial  had 
been  famous  for  impromptu  cudgelling.  For  this  historical 
offence  the  magistrates  of  the  district  had  always  inflicted  the 
equally  historical  punishment  of  shutting  up  the  most  incor- 
rigible offenders,  not  in  prison,  but  in  their  own  pig-sty.  In 
recent  times,  however,  the  Government,  wishing  to  correct 
the  rudeness  of  these  peasants,  appointed  an  "  enlightened " 
man  as  a  magistrate,  who  at  once  abolished  the  original  pen- 
alty above-mentioned.  But  this  relaxation  of  punishment  was 
so  far  from  being  welcome  to  the  villagers,  that  they  pre- 
sented a  petition  praying  that  a  more  energetic  man  might  be 
given  them  as  a  magistrate,  who  would  have  the  courage  to 
punish  according  to  law  and  justice,  "as  had  been  before- 
time."  And  the  magistrate  who  abolished  incarceration  in 
the  pig-sty  could  never  obtain  the  respect  of  the  neighbor- 
hood. This  happened  no  longer  ago  than  the  beginning  of 
the  present  century. 

But  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  historical  piety  of 
the  German  peasant  extends  to  anything  not  immediately 
connected  with  himself.  He  has  the  warmest  piety  toward 
the  old  tumble-down  house  which  his  grandfather  built,  and 
which  nothing  will  induce  him  to  improve;  but  toward  the 
venerable  ruins  of  the  old  castle  that  overlooks  his  village  he 
has  no  piety  at  all,  and  carries  off  its  stones  to  make  a  fence 
for  his  garden,  or  tears  down  the  Gothic  carving  of  the  old 
monastic  church,  which  is  "  nothing  to  him, "  to  mark  off  a 
footpath  through  his  field.  It  is  the  same  with  historical  tra- 
ditions. The  peasant  has  them  fresh  in  his  memory,  so  far 
as  they  relate  to  himself.  In  districts  where  the  peasantry 
are  unadulterated,  you  discern  the  remnants  of  the  feudal 
relations  in  innumerable  customs  and  phrases,  but  you  will 
ask  in  vain  for  historical  traditions  concerning  the  empire,  or 
even  concerning  the  particular  princely  house  to  which  the 
peasant  is  subject.  He  can  tell  you  what  "  half  people  and 
whole  people "  mean ;  in  Hesse  you  will  still  hear  of  "  four 
horses  making  a  whole  peasant, "  or  of  "  four-day  and  three- 


RIEHL.  151 

day  peasants  " :  but  you  will  ask  in  vain  about  Charlemagne 
and  Frederic  Barbarossa. 

Riehl  well  observes  that  the  feudal  system,  which  made  the 
peasant  the  bondman  of  his  lord,  was  an  immense  benefit  in 
a  country  the  greater  part  of  which  had  still  to  be  colonized,  — 
rescued  the  peasant  from  vagabondage,  and  laid  the  foundation 
of  persistency  and  endurance  in  future  generations.  If  a  free 
German  peasantry  belongs  only  to  modern  times,  it  is  to  his 
ancestor  who  was  a  serf,  and  even,  in  the  earliest  times,  a 
slave,  that  the  peasant  owes  the  foundation  of  his  independ- 
ence— namely,  his  capability  of  a  settled  existence, — nay, 
his  unreasoning  persistency,  which  has  its  important  function 
in  the  development  of  the  race. 

Perhaps  the  very  worst  result  of  that  unreasoning  persist- 
ency is  the  peasant's  inveterate  habit  of  litigation.  Every 
one  remembers  the  immortal  description  of  Dandie  Dinmont's 
importunate  application  to  Lawyer  Pleydell  to  manage  his 
"bit  lawsuit,"  till  at  length  Pleydell  consents  to  help  him 
ruin  himself,  on  the  ground  that  Dandie  may  fall  into  worse 
hands.  It  seems,  this  is  a  scene  which  has  many  parallels  in 
Germany.  The  farmer's  lawsuit  is  his  point  of  honor;  and 
he  will  carry  it  through,  though  he  knows  from  the  very  first 
day  that  he  shall  get  nothing  by  it.  The  litigious  peasant 
piques  himself,  like  Mr.  Saddletree,  on  his  knowledge  of  the 
law,  and  this  vanity  is  the  chief  impulse  to  many  a  lawsuit. 
To  the  mind  of  the  peasant,  law  presents  itself  as  the  "  cus- 
tom of  the  country, "  and  it  is  his  pride  to  be  versed  in  all 
customs.  Custom  with  him  holds  the  place  of  sentiment,  of 
theory,  and  in  many  cases  of  affection.  Eiehl  justly  urges  the 
importance  of  simplifying  law  proceedings,  so  as  to  cut  off 
this  vanity  at  its  source,  and  also  of  encouraging,  by  every 
possible  means,  the  practice  of  arbitration. 

The  peasant  never  begins  his  lawsuit  in  summer,  for  the 
same  reason  that  he  does  not  make  love  and  marry  in  summer, 
— because  he  has  no  time  for  that  sort  of  thing.  Anything  is 
easier  to  him  than  to  move  out  of  his  habitual  course,  and  he 
is  attached  even  to  his  privations.  Some  years  ago,  a  peasant 
youth,  out  of  the  poorest  and  remotest  region  of  the  Wester- 
wald,  was  enlisted  as  a  recruit,  at  Weil  burg  in  Nassau.  The 


152       THE  NATURAL  HISTORY   OF  GERMAN  LIFE: 

lad  having  never  in  his  life  slept  in  a  bed,  when  he  had  to  get 
into  one  for  the  first  time  began  to  cry  like  a  child ;  and  he 
deserted  twice  because  he  could  not  reconcile  himself  to  sleep- 
ing in  a  bed,  and  to  the  "  fine  "  life  of  the  barracks :  he  was 
homesick  at  the  thought  of  his  accustomed  poverty  and  his 
thatched  hut.  A  strong  contrast  this  with  the  feeling  of  the 
poor  in  towns,  who  would  be  far  enough  from  deserting  be- 
cause their  condition  was  too  much  improved!  The  genuine 
peasant  is  never  ashamed  of  his  rank  and  calling ;  he  is  rather 
inclined  to  look  down  on  every  one  who  does  not  wear  a 
smock-frock,  and  thinks  a  man  who  has  the  manners  of  the 
gentry  is  likely  to  be  rather  windy  and  unsubstantial.  In 
some  places,  even  in  French  districts,  this  feeling  is  strongly 
symbolized  by  the  practice  of  the  peasantry,  on  certain  festi- 
val days,  to  dress  the  images  of  the  saints  in  peasant's  cloth- 
ing. History  tells  us  of  all  kinds  of  peasant  insurrections, 
the  object  of  which  was  to  obtain  relief  for  the  peasants  from 
some  of  their  many  oppressions ;  but  of  an  effort  on  their  part 
to  step  out  of  their  hereditary  rank  and  calling,  to  become 
gentry,  to  leave  the  plough  and  carry  on  the  easier  business  of 
capitalists  or  Government  functionaries,  there  is  no  example. 
The  German  novelists  who  undertake  to  give  pictures  of 
peasant  life,  fall  into  the  same  mistake  as  our  English  novel- 
ists ;  they  transfer  their  own  feelings  to  ploughmen  and  wood- 
cutters, and  give  them  both  joys  and  sorrows  of  which  they 
know  nothing.  The  peasant  never  questions  the  obligation 
of  family  ties — he  questions  no  custom,  — but  tender  affection, 
as  it  exists  amongst  the  refined  part  of  mankind,  is  almost  as 
foreign  to  him  as  white  hands  and  filbert-shaped  nails.  That 
the  aged  father  who  has  given  up  his  property  to  his  children 
on  condition  of  their  maintaining  him  for  the  remainder  of  his 
life,  is  very  far  from  meeting  with  delicate  attentions,  is  indi- 
cated by  the  proverb  current  among  the  peasantry — "  Don't 
take  your  clothes  off  before  you  go  to  bed."  Among  rustic; 
moral  tales  and  parables,  not  one  is  more  universal  than  the 
story  of  the  ungrateful  children,  who  made  their  gray-headed 
father,  dependent  on  them  for  a  maintenance,  eat  at  a  wooden 
trough  because  he  shook  the  food  out  of  his  trembling  hands. 
1  This  proverb  is  common  among  the  Euglish  farmers  also. 


RIEHL.  153 

Then  these  same  ungrateful  children  observed  one  day  that 
their  own  little  boy  was  making  a  tiny  wooden  trough;  and 
when  they  asked  him  what  it  was  for,  he  answered — that  his 
father  and  mother  might  eat  out  of  it,  when  he  was  a  man 
and  had  to  keep  them. 

Marriage  is  a  very  prudential  affair,  especially  among  the 
peasants  who  have  the  largest  share  of  property.  Politic  mar- 
riages are  as  common  among  them  as  among  princes;  and 
when  a  peasant-heiress  in  Westphalia  marries,  her  husband 
adopts  her  name,  and  places  his  own  after  it  with  the  prefix 
geborner  (ne).  The  girls  marry  young,  and  the  rapidity  with 
which  they  get  old  and  ugly  is  one  among  the  many  proofs 
that  the  early  years  of  marriage  are  fuller  of  hardships 
than  of  conjugal  tenderness.  "  When  our  writers  of  village 
stories,"  says  Eiehl,  "transferred  their  own  emotional  life  to 
the  peasant,  they  obliterated  what  is  precisely  his  most  pre- 
dominant characteristic — namely,  that  with  him  general  cus- 
tom holds  the  place  of  individual  feeling." 

We  pay  for  greater  emotional  susceptibility  too  often  by 
nervous  diseases  of  which  the  peasant  knows  nothing.  To 
him  headache  is  the  least  of  physical  evils,  because  he  thinks 
head-work  the  easiest  and  least  indispensable  of  all  labor. 
Happily,  many  of  the  younger  sons  in  peasant  families,  by 
going  to  seek  their  living  in  the  towns,  carry  their  hardy  ner- 
vous system  to  amalgamate  with  the  over-wrought  nerves  of 
our  town  population,  and  refresh  them  with  a  little  rude  vigor. 
And  a  return  to  the  habits  of  peasant  life  is  the  best  remedy 
for  many  moral  as  well  as  physical  diseases  induced  by  per- 
verted civilization.  Eiehl  points  to  colonization  as  presenting 
the  true  field  for  this  regenerative  process.  On  the  other  side 
of  the  ocean  a  man  will  have  the  courage  to  begin  life  again 
as  a  peasant,  while  at  home,  perhaps,  opportunity  as  well  as 
courage  will  fail  him.  Apropos  of  this  subject  of  emigration, 
he  remarks  the  striking  fact  that  the  native  shrewdness  and 
mother-wit  of  the  German  peasant  seem  to  forsake  him  en- 
tirely when  he  has  to  apply  them  under  new  circumstances, 
and  on  relations  foreign  to  his  experience.  Hence  it  is  that 
the  German  peasant  who  emigrates,  so  constantly  falls  a  vic- 
tim to  unprincipled  adventurers  in  the  preliminaries  to  emi- 


164       THE  NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  GERMAN  LIFE: 

gration ;  but  if  once  he  gets  his  foot  on  the  American  soil,  hd 
exhibits  all  the  first-rate  qualities  of  an  agricultural  colonist ; 
and  among  all  German  emigrants,  the  peasant  class  are  the 
most  successful. 

But  many  disintegrating  forces  have  been  at  work  on  the 
peasant  character,  and  degeneration  is  unhappily  going  on  at 
a  greater  pace  than  development.  In  the  wine  districts  espe- 
cially, the  inability  of  the  small  proprietors  to  bear  up  under 
the  vicissitudes  of  the  market,  or  to  ensure  a  high  quality  of 
wine  by  running  the  risks  of  a  late  vintage,  and  the  competi- 
tion of  beer  and  cider  with  the  inferior  wines,  have  tended 
to  produce  that  uncertainty  of  gain  which,  with  the  peasant, 
is  the  inevitable  cause  of  demoralization.  The  small  peasant 
proprietors  are  not  a  new  class  in  Germany,  but  many  of  the 
evils  of  their  position  are  new.  They  are  more  dependent  on 
ready  money  than  formerly :  thus,  where  a  peasant  used  to 
get  his  wood  for  building  and  firing  from  the  common  forest, 
he  has  now  to  pay  for  it  with  hard  cash ;  he  used  to  thatch  his 
own  house,  with  the  help  perhaps  of  a  neighbor,  but  now  he 
pays  a  man  to  do  it  for  him ;  he  used  to  pay  taxes  in  kind,  he 
now  pays  them  in  money.  The  chances  of  the  market  have 
to  be  discounted,  and  the  peasant  falls  into  the  hands  of 
money-lenders.  Here  is  one  of  the  cases  in  which  social 
policy  clashes  with  a  purely  economical  policy. 

Political  vicissitudes  have  added  their  influence  to  that  of 
economical  changes  in  disturbing  that  dim  instinct,  that  rev- 
erence for  traditional  custom,  which  is  the  peasant's  princi- 
ple of  action.  He  is  in  the  midst  of  novelties  for  which  he 
knows  no  reason — changes  in  political  geography,  changes  of 
the  Government  to  which  he  owes  fealty,  changes  in  bureau- 
cratic management  and  police  regulations.  He  finds  himself 
in  a  new  element  before  an  apparatus  for  breathing  in  it  is 
developed  in  him.  His  only  knowledge  of  modern  history  is 
in  some  of  its  results — for  instance,  that  he  has  to  pay  heavier 
taxes  from  year  to  year.  His  chief  idea  of  a  Government  is 
of  a  power  that  raises  his  taxes,  opposes  his  harmless  customs, 
and  torments  him  with  new  formalities.  The  source  of  all 
this  is  the  false  system  of  "  enlightening  "  the  peasant  which 
has  been  adopted  by  the  bureaucratic  Governments.  A  sys- 


155 

tern  which  disregards  the  traditions  and  hereditary  attach- 
ments of  the  peasant,  and  appeals  only  to  a  logical  understand- 
ing which  is  not  yet  developed  in  him,  is  simply  disintegrating 
and  ruinous  to  the  peasant  character.  The  interference  with 
the  communal  regulations  has  been  of  this  fatal  character. 
Instead  of  endeavoring  to  promote  to  the  utmost  the  healthy 
life  of  the  Commune,  as  an  organism  the  conditions  of  which 
are  bound  up  with  the  historical  characteristics  of  the  peas- 
ant, the  bureaucratic  plan  of  government  is  bent  on  improve- 
ment by  its  patent  machinery  of  State-appointed  functionaries, 
and  off-hand  regulations  in  accordance  with  modern  enlighten- 
ment. The  spirit  of  communal  exclusiveness — the  resistance 
to  the  indiscriminate  establishment  of  strangers — is  an  in- 
tense traditional  feeling  in  the  peasant.  "  This  gallows  is  for 
us  and  our  children,"  is  the  typical  motto  of  this  spirit.  But 
such  exclusiveness  is  highly  irrational  and  repugnant  to  mod- 
ern liberalism;  therefore  a  bureaucratic  Government  at  once 
opposes  it,  and  encourages  to  the  utmost  the  introduction  of  new 
inhabitants  in  the  provincial  communes.  Instead  of  allowing 
the  peasants  to  manage  their  own  affairs,  and,  if  they  happen 
to  believe  that  five  and  four  make  eleven,  to  unlearn  the  prej- 
udice by  their  own  experience  in  calculation,  so  that  they 
may  gradually  understand  processes,  and  not  merely  see  re- 
sults, bureaucracy  comes  with  its  "  Ready  Reckoner "  and 
works  all  the  peasant's  sums  for  him — the  surest  way  of 
maintaining  him  in  his  stupidity,  however  it  may  shake  his 
prejudice. 

Another  questionable  plan  for  elevating  the  peasant  is  the 
supposed  elevation  of  the  clerical  character,  by  preventing  the 
clergyman  from  cultivating  more  than  a  trifling  part  of  the 
land  attached  to  his  benefice, — that  he  may  be  as  much  as 
possible  of  a  scientific  theologian,  and  as  little  as  possible  of 
a  peasant.  In  this,  Eiehl  observes,  lies  one  great  source  of 
weakness  to  the  Protestant  Church  as  compared  with  the  Cath- 
olic, which  finds  the  great  majority  of  its  priests  among  the 
owner  orders ;  and  we  have  had  the  opportunity  of  making  an 
analogous  comparison  in  England,  where  many  of  us  can  re- 
member country  districts  in  which  the  great  mass  of  the  peo- 
ple were  christianized  by  illiterate  Methodist  and  Independent 


156      THE  NATURAL  HISTORY   OF  GERMAN  LIFE: 

ministers ;  while  the  influence  of  the  parish  clergyman  among 
the  poor  did  not  extend  much  beyond  a  few  old  women  in  scar- 
let cloaks,  and  a  few  exceptional  church-going  laborers. 

Bearing  in  mind  the  general  characteristics  of  the  German 
peasant,  it  is  easy  to  understand  his  relation  to  the  revolu- 
tionary ideas  and  revolutionary  movements  of  modern  times. 
The  peasant  in  Germany,  as  elsewhere,  is  a  born  grumbler. 
He  has  always  plenty  of  grievances  in  his  pocket,  but  he  does 
not  generalize  those  grievances ;  he  does  not  complain  of  "  gov- 
ernment "  or  "  society, "  probably  because  he  has  good  reason  to 
complain  of  the  burgomaster.  When  a  few  sparks  from  the 
first  French  Revolution  fell  among  the  German  peasantry,  and 
in  certain  villages  of  Saxony  the  country  people  assembled 
together  to  write  down  their  demands,  there  was  no  glimpse 
in  their  petition  of  the  "  universal  rights  of  man, "  but  simply 
of  their  own  particular  affairs  as  Saxon  peasants.  Again, 
after  the  July  revolution  of  1830,  there  were  many  insignifi- 
cant peasant  insurrections;  but  the  object  of  almost  all  was 
the  removal  of  local  grievances.  Toll -houses  were  pulled 
down;  stamped  paper  was  destroyed;  in  some  places  there 
was  a  persecution  of  wild  boars,  in  others  of  that  plentiful 
tame  animal,  the  German  Rath,  or  councillor  who  is  never 
called  into  council.  But  in  1848  it  seemed  as  if  the  move- 
ments of  the  peasants  had  taken  a  new  character;  in  the 
small  western  states  of  Germany  it  seemed  as  if  the  whole 
class  of  peasantry  was  in  insurrection.  But,  in  fact,  the 
peasant  did  not  know  the  meaning  of  ^the  part  he  was  playing. 
He  had  heard  that  everything  was  being  set  right  in  the 
towns,  and  that  wonderful  things  were  happening  there,  so 
he  tied  up  his  bundle  and  set  off.  Without  any  distinct  ob- 
ject or  resolution,  the  country  people  presented  themselves  on 
the  scene  of  commotion,  and  were  warmly  received  by  the 
party  leaders.  But,  seen  from  the  windows  of  ducal  palaces 
and  ministerial  hotels,  these  swarms  of  peasants  had  quite 
another  aspect,  and  it  was  imagined  that  they  had  a  common 
plan  of  co-operation.  This,  however,  the  peasants  have  never 
had.  Systematic  co-operation  implies  general  conceptions, 
and  a  provisional  subordination  of  egoism,  to  which  even  the 
artisans  of  towns  have  rarely  shown  themselves  equal,  and 


RIEHL.  157 

which  are  as  foreign  to  the  mind  of  the  peasant  as  logarithms 
or  the  doctrine  of  chemical  proportions.  And  the  revolution- 
ary fervor  of  the  peasant  was  soon  cooled.  The  old  mis- 
trust of  the  towns  was  reawakened  on  the  spot.  The  Tyro- 
lese  peasants  saw  no  great  good  in  the  freedom  of  the  press 
and  the  constitution,  because  these  changes  "  seemed  to  please 
the  gentry  so  much.v  Peasants  who  had  given  their  voices 
stormily  for  a  German  parliament  asked  afterward,  with  a 
doubtful  look,  whether  it  were  to  consist  of  infantry  or  cav- 
alry. When  royal  domains  were  declared  the  property  of  the 
State,  the  peasants  in  some  small  principalities  rejoiced  over 
this,  because  they  interpreted  it  to  mean  that  every  one  would 
have  his  share  in  them,  after  the  manner  of  the  old  common 
and  forests  rights. 

The  very  practical  views  of  the  peasants,  with  regard  to 
the  demands  of  the  people,  were  in  amusing  contrast  with  the 
abstract  theorizing  of  the  educated  townsmen.  The  peasant 
continually  withheld  all  State  payments  until  he  saw  how 
matters  would  turn  out,  and  was  disposed  to  reckon  up  the 
solid  benefit,  in  the  form  of  land  or  money,  that  might  come 
to  him  from  the  changes  obtained.  While  the  townsman  was 
heating  his  brains  about  representation  on  the  broadest  basis, 
the  peasant  asked  if  the  relation  between  tenant  and  landlord 
would  continue  as  before,  and  whether  the  removal  of  the 
"  feudal  obligations "  meant  that  the  farmer  should  become 
owner  of  the  land? 

It  is  in  the  same  naive  way  that  Communism  is  interpreted 
by  the  German  peasantry.  The  wide  spread  among  them  of 
communistic  doctrines,  the  eagerness  with  which  they  listened 
to  a  plan  for  the  partition  of  property,  seemed  to  countenance 
the  notion  that  it  was  a  delusion  to  suppose  the  peasant  would 
be  secured  from  this  intoxication  by  his  love  of  secure  posses- 
sion and  peaceful  earnings.  But,  in  fact,  the  peasant  contem- 
plated "  partition "  by  the  light  of  a  historical  reminiscence 
rather  than  of  novel  theory.  The  golden  age,  in  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  peasant,  was  the  time  when  every  member  of  the 
commune  had  a  right  to  as  much  wood  from  the  forest  as 
would  enable  him  to  sell  some,  after  using  what  he  wanted  in 
iiring,— in  which  the  communal  possessions  were  so  profit- 


158       THE  NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  GERMAN  LIFE: 

able  that,  instead  of  his  having  to  pay  rates  at  the  end  of  the 
year,  each  member  of  the  commune  was  something  in  pocket. 
Hence  the  peasants  in  general  understood  by  "  partition  "  that 
the  State  lands,  especially  the  forests,  would  be  divided  among 
the  communes,  and  that,  by  some  political  legerdemain  or 
other,  everybody  would  have  free  firewood,  free  grazing  for 
his  cattle,  and,  over  and  above  that,  a  "piece  of  gold  without 
working  for  it.  That  he  should  give  up  a  single  clod  of  his 
own  to  further  the  general  "  partition  "  had  never  entered  the 
mind  of  the  peasant  communist ;  and  the  perception  that  this 
was  an  essential  preliminary  to  "  partition  "  was  often  a  suffi- 
cient cure  for  his  Communism. 

In  villages  lying  in  the  neighborhood  of  large  towns,  how- 
ever, where  the  circumstances  of  the  peasantry  are  very  differ- 
ent, quite  another  interpretation  of  Communism  is  prevalent. 
Here  the  peasant  is  generally  sunk  to  the  position  of  the  pro- 
letaire,  living  from  hand  to  mouth ;  he  has  nothing  to  lose, 
but  everything  to  gain  by  "  partition."  The  coarse  nature  of 
the  peasant  has  here  been  corrupted  into  bestiality  by  the 
disturbance  of  his  instincts,  while  he  is  as  yet  incapable  of 
principles ;  and  in  this  type  of  the  degenerate  peasant  is  seen 
the  worst  example  of  ignorance  intoxicated  by  theory. 

A  significant  hint  as  to  the  interpretation  the  peasants  put 
on  revolutionary  theories,  may  be  drawn  from  the  way  they 
employed  the  few  weeks  in  which  their  movements  were  un- 
checked. They  felled  the  forest  trees  and  shot  the  game; 
they  withheld  taxes;  they  shook  off  the  imaginary  or  real 
burdens  imposed  on  them  by  their  mediatized  princes,  by  pre- 
senting their  "  demands  "  in  a  very  rough  way  before  the  du- 
cal or  princely  "  Schloss " ;  they  set  their  faces  against  the 
bureaucratic  management  of  the  communes,  deposed  the  Gov- 
ernment functionaries  who  had  been  placed  over  them  as  bur- 
gomasters and  magistrates,  and  abolished  the  whole  bureau- 
cratic system  of  procedure,  simply  by  taking  no  notice  of  its 
regulations,  and  recurring  to  some  tradition — some  old  order 
or  disorder  of  things.  In  all  this  it  is  clear  that  they  were 
animated  not  in  the  least  by  the  spirit  of  modern  revolution, 
but  by  a  purely  narrow  and  personal  impulse  toward  reaction. 

The  idea  of  constitutional  government  lies  quite  beyond  the 


RIEHL.  159 

range  of  the  German  peasant's  conceptions.  His  only  notion 
of  representation  is  that  of  a  representation  of  ranks  —  of 
classes ;  his  only  notion  of  a  deputy  is  of  one  who  takes  care, 
not  of  the  national  welfare,  but  of  the  interests  of  his  own 
order.  Herein  lay  the  great  mistake  of  the  democratic  party, 
in  common  with  the  bureaucratic  Governments,  that  they  en- 
tirely omitted  the  peculiar  character  of  the  peasant  from  their 
political  calculations.  They  talked  of  the  "  people,"  and  for- 
got that  the  peasants  were  included  in  the  term.  Only  a  base- 
less misconception  of  the  peasant's  character  could  induce  the 
supposition  that  he  would  feel  the  slightest  enthusiasm  about 
the  principles  involved  in  the  reconstitution  of  the  Empire,  or 
even  about  that  reconstitution  itself.  He  has  no  zeal  for  a 
written  law,  as  such,  but  only  so  far  as  it  takes  the  form  of 
a  living  law — a  tradition.  It  was  the  external  authority  which 
the  revolutionary  party  had  won  in  Baden  that  attracted  the 
peasants  into  a  participation  in  the  struggle. 

Such,  Kiehl  tells  us,  are  the  general  characteristics  of  the 
German  peasantry — characteristics  which  subsist  amidst  a 
wide  variety  of  circumstances.  In  Mecklenburg,  Pomerania, 
and  Brandenburg,  the  peasant  lives  on  extensive  estates;  in 
Westphalia  he  lives  in  large  isolated  homesteads ;  in  the  West- 
erwald  and  in  Sauerland,  in  little  groups  of  villages  and  ham- 
lets ;  on  the  Khine,  land  is  for  the  most  part  parcelled  out 
among  small  proprietors,  who  live  together  in  large  villages. 
Then,  of  course,  the  diversified  physical  geography  of  Ger- 
many gives  rise  to  equally  diversified  methods  of  land-culture ; 
and  out  of  these  various  circumstances  grow  numerous  specific 
differences  in  manner  and  character.  But  the  generic  charac- 
ter of  the  German  peasant  is  everywhere  the  same :  in  the 
clean  mountain-hamlet  and  in  the  dirty  fishing-village  on  the 
coast ;  in  the  plains  of  North  Germany  and  in  the  backwoods 
of  America.  "  Everywhere  he  has  the  same  historical  char- 
acter— everywhere  custom  is  his  supreme  law.  Where  relig- 
ion and  patriotism  are  still  a  na'ive  instinct — are  still  a  sacred 
custom — there  begins  the  class  of  the  German  Peasantry." 

Our  readers  will  perhaps  already  have  gathered  from  the 
foregoing  portrait  of  the  German  peasant,  that  Biehl  is  not  a 


160       THE  NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  GERMAN  LIFE: 

man  who  looks  at  objects  through  the  spectacles  either  of  the 
doctrinaire  or  the  dreamer ;  and  they  will  be  ready  to  believe 
what  he  tells  us  in  his  Preface — namely,  that  years  ago  he 
began  his  wanderings  over  the  hills  and  plains  of  Germany 
for  the  sake  of  obtaining,  in  immediate  intercourse  with  the 
people,  that  completion  of  his  historical,  political,  and  eco- 
nomical studies  which  he  was  unable  to  find  in  books.  He 
began  his  investigations  with  no  party  prepossessions,  and  his 
present  views  were  evolved  entirely  from  his  own  gradually 
amassed  observations.  He  was,  first  of  all,  a  pedestrian,  and 
only  in  the  second  place  a  political  author.  The  views  at 
which  he  has  arrived  by  this  inductive  process,  he  sums  up  in 
the  term — social-political-conservatism;  but  his  conservatism 
is,  we  conceive,  of  a  thoroughly  philosophical  kind.  He  sees 
in  European  society  incarnate  history,  and  auy  attempt  to 
disengage  it  from  its  historical  elements  must,  he  believes, 
be  simply  destructive  of  social  vitality. l  What  has  grown  up 
historically  can  only  die  out  historically,  by  the  gradual  oper- 
ation of  necessary  laws.  The  external  conditions  which  soci- 
ety has  inherited 'from  the  past  are  but  the  manifestation  of 
inherited  internal  conditions  in  the  human  beings  who  com- 
pose it;  the  internal  conditions  and  the  external  are  related 
to  each  other  as  the  organism  and  its  medium,  aud  develop- 
ment can  take  place  only  by  the  gradual  consentaneous  devel- 
opment of  both.  Take  the  familiar  example  of  attempts  to 
abolish  titles,  which  have  been  about  as  effective  as  the  proc- 
ess of  cutting  off  poppy -heads  in  a  corn-field.  "  Jedem  Men- 
schen,"  says  Riehl,  "  ist  sein  Zopf  angeboren,  warum  soil  denn 
der  sociale  Sprachgebrauch  nickt  auch  seinen  Zopf  haben  ?  " — 
which  we  may  render — "As  long  as  snobbism  runs  in  the 
blood,  why  should  it  not  run  in  our  speech?  "  As  a  necessary 
preliminary  to  a  purely  rational  society,  you  must  obtain 
purely  rational  men,  free  from  the  sweet  and  bitter  prejudices 
of  hereditary  affection  and  antipathy ;  which  is  as  easy  as  to 
get  running  streams  without  springs,  or  the  leafy  shade  of  the 
forest  without  the  secular  growth  of  trunk  and  branch. 

'Throughout  this  article,  in  our  statement  of  Riehl's  opinions,  we 
must  be  understood  not  as  quoting  Riehl,  but  as  interpreting  and  illus- 
trating him, 


RIEHL.  161 

The  historical  conditions  of  society  may  be  compared  with 
those  of  language.  It  must  be  admitted  that  the  language  of 
cultivated  nations  is  in  anything  but  a  rational  state ;  the  great 
sections  of  the  civilized  world  are  only  approximatively  intel- 
ligible to  each  other,  and.  even  that,  only  at  the  cost  of  long 
study ;  one  word  stands  for  many  things,  and  many  words  for 
one  thing;  the  subtle  shades  of  meaning,  and  still  subtler 
echoes  of  association,  make  language  an  instrument  which 
scarcely  anything  short  of  genius  can  wield  with  definiteness 
and  certainty.  Suppose,  then,  that  the  effort  which  has  been 
again  and  again  made  to  construct  a  universal  language  on  a 
rational  basis  has  at  length  succeeded,  and  that  you  have  a 
language  which  has  no  uncertainty,  no  whims  of  idiom,  no 
cumbrous  forms,  no  fitful  shimmer  of  rnany-hued  significance, 
no  hoary  archaisms  "  familiar  with  forgotten  years  " — a  patent 
deodorized  and  non-resonant  language,  which  effects  the  pur- 
pose of  communication  as  perfectly  and  rapidly  as  algebraic 
signs.  Your  language  may  be  a  perfect  medium  of  expression 
to  science,  but  will  never  express  life,  which  is  a  great  deal 
more  than  science.  With  the  anomalies  and  inconveniences 
of  historical  language,  you  will  have  parted  with  its  music 
and  its  passion,  with  its  vital  qualities  as  an  expression  of  in- 
dividual character,  with  its  subtle  capabilities  of  wit,  with 
everything  that  gives  it  power  over  the  imagination ;  and  the 
next  step  in  simplification  will  be  the  invention  of  a  talking 
watch,  which  will  achieve  the  utmost  facility  and  despatch  in 
the  communication  of  ideas  by  a  graduated  adjustment  of 
ticks,  to  be  represented  in  writing  by  a  corresponding  arrange- 
ment of  dots.  A  melancholy  "  language  of  the  future  " !  The 
sensory  and  motor  nerves  that  run  in  the  same  sheath,  are 
scarcely  bound  together  by  a  more  necessary  and  delicate 
union  than  that  which  binds  men's  affections,  imagination, 
wit,  and  humor,  with  the  subtle  ramifications  of  historical 
language.  Language  must  be  left  to  grow  in  precision,  com- 
pleteness, and  unity,  as  minds  grow  in  clearness,  comprehen- 
siveness, and  sympathy.  And  there  is  an  analogous  relation 
between  the  moral  tendencies  of  men  and  the  social  conditions 
they  have  inherited.  The  nature  of  European  men  has  its 
roots  intertwined  with  the  past,  and  can  only  be  developed 
11 


THE  NATURAL  HISTORY  OP  GERMAN  LIFE: 

by  allowing  those  roots  to  remain  undisturbed  while  the  proc- 
ess of  development  is  going  on,  until  that  perfect  ripeness  of 
the  seed  which  carries  with  it  a  life  independent  of  the  root. 
This  vital  connection  with  the  past  is  much  more  vividly  felt 
on  the  Continent  than  in  England,  where  we  have  to  recall  it 
by  an  effort  of  memory  and  reflection ;  for  though  our  English 
life  is  in  its  core  intensely  traditional,  Protestantism  and  com- 
merce have  modernized  the  face  of  the  land  and  the  aspects 
of  society  in  a  far  greater  degree  than  in  any  Continental 
country : — • 

"Abroad,"  says  Ruskin,  "a  building  of  the  eighth  or  tenth  century 
stands  ruinous  in  the  open  street ;  the  children  play  around  it,  the  peas- 
ants heap  their  corn  in  it,  the  buildings  of  yesterday  nestle  about  it,  and 
fit  their  new  stones  in  its  rents,  and  tremble  in  sympathy  as  it  trembles. 
No  one  wonders  at  it,  or  thinks  of  it  as  separate,  and  of  another  time ; 
we  feel  the  ancient  world  to  be  a  real  thing,  and  one  with  the  new  ;  an- 
tiquity is  no  dream ;  it  is  rather  the  children  playing  about  the  old 
stones  that  are  the  dream.  But  all  is  continuous,  and  the  words,  'from 
generation  to  generation,'  understandable  here." 

This  conception  of  European  society  as  incarnate  history,  is 
the  fundamental  idea  of  Riehl's  books. 

After  the  notable  failure  of  revolutionary  attempts  con- 
ducted from  the  point  of  view  of  abstract  democratic  and  so- 
cialistic theories,  after  the  practical  demonstration  of  the  evils 
resulting  from  a  bureaucratic  system  which  governs  by  an  un- 
discriminating,  dead  mechanism,  Riehl  wishes  to  urge  on  the 
consideration  of  his  countrymen  a  social  policy  founded  on  the 
special  study  of  the  people  as  they  are — on  the  natural  his- 
tory of  the  various  social  ranks.  He  thinks  it  wise  to  pause 
a  little  from  theorizing,  and  see  what  is  the  material  actually 
present  for  theory  to  work  upon.  It  is  the  glory  of  the  So- 
cialists— in  contrast  with  the  democratic  doctrinaires  who 
have  been  too  much  occupied  with  the  general  idea  of  "  the 
people  "  to  inquire  particularly  into  the  actual  life  of  the  peo- 
ple— that  they  have  thrown  themselves  with  enthusiastic  zeal 
into  the  study  at  least  of  one  social  group — namely,  the  fac- 
tory operatives ;  and  here  lies  the  secret  of  their  partial  suc- 
cess. But,  unfortunately,  they  have  made  this  special  study 
of  a  single  fragment  of  society  the  basis  of  a  theory  which 


RIEHL.  163 

quietly  substitutes  for  the  small  group  of  Parisian  proletaires 
or  English  factory-workers,  the  society  of  all  Europe — nay, 
of  the  whole  world.  And  in  this  way  they  have  lost  the  best 
fruit  of  their  investigations.  "For,  says  Eiehl,  the  more  deeply 
we  penetrate  into  the  knowledge  of  society  in  its  details,  the 
more  thoroughly  we  shall  be  convinced  that  a  universal  social 
policy  has  no  validity  except  on  paper,  and  can  never  be  car- 
ried into  successful  practice.  The  conditions  of  German  soci- 
ety are  altogether  different  from  those  of  French,  of  English, 
or  of  Italian  society ;  and  to  apply  the  same  social  theory  to 
these  nations  indiscriminately,  is  about  as  wise  a  procedure  as 
Triptolemus  Yellowley's  application  of  the  agricultural  direc- 
tions in  Virgil's  "  Georgics  "  to  his  farm  in  the  Shetland  Isles. 
It  is  the  clear  and  strong  light  in  which  Biehl  places  this 
important  position,  that  in  our  opinion  constitutes  the  sugges- 
tive value  of  his  books  for  foreign  as  well  as  German  readers. 
It  has  not  been  sufficiently  insisted  on,  that  in  the  various 
branches  of  Social  Science  there  is  an  advance  from  the  gen- 
eral to  the  special,  from  the  simple  to  the  complex,  analogous 
with  that  which  is  found  in  the  series  of  the  sciences,  from 
Mathematics  to  Biology.  To  the  laws  of  quantity  comprised 
in  Mathematics  and  Physics  are  superadded,  in  Chemistry, 
laws  of  quality ;  to  these  again  are  added,  in  Biology,  laws  of 
life;  and  lastly,  the  conditions  of  life  in  general  branch  out 
into  its  special  conditions,  or  Natural  History,  on  the  one 
hand,  and  into  its  abnormal  conditions,  or  Pathology,  on  the 
other.  And  in  this  series  or  ramification  of  the  sciences,  the 
more  general  science  will  not  suffice  to  solve  the  problems  of 
the  more  special.  Chemistry  embraces  phenomena  which  are 
not  explicable  by  Physics ;  Biology  embraces  phenomena  which 
are  not  explicable  by  Chemistry ;  and  no  biological  generaliza- 
tion will  enable  us  to  predict  the  infinite  specialities  produced 
by  the  complexity  of  vital  conditions.  So  Social  Science, 
while  it  has  departments  which  in  their  fundamental  gener- 
ality correspond  to  mathematics  and  physics — namely,  those 
grand  and  simple  generalizations  which  trace  out  the  inevi- 
table march  of  the  human  race  as  a  whole,  and,  as  a  ramifica- 
tion of  these,  the  laws  of  economical  science — has  also,  in 
the  departments  of  government  and  jurisprudence,  which 


164       THE  NATURAL  HISTORY   OF  GERMAN  LIFE: 

embrace  the  conditions  of  social  life  in  all  their  complexity, 
what  may  be  called  its  Biology,  carrying  us  on  to  innumer- 
able special  phenomena  which  outlie  the  sphere  of  science, 
and  belong  to  Natural  History.  And  just  as  the  most  thor- 
ough acquaintance  with  physics,  or  chemistry,  or  general  physi- 
ology will  not  enable  you  at  once  to  establish  the  balance  of 
life  in  your  private  vivarium,  so  that  your  particular  society 
of  zoophytes,  molluscs,  and  echinoderms  may  feel  themselves, 
as  the  Germans  say,  at  ease  in  their  skin ;  so  the  most  com- 
plete equipment  of  theory  will  not  enable  a  statesman  or  a 
political  and  social  reformer  to  adjust  his  measures  wisely,  in 
the  absence  of  a  special  acquaintance  with  the  section  of  soci- 
ety for  which  he  legislates,  with  the  peculiar  characteristics 
of  the  nation,  the  province,  the  class  whose  well-being  he  has 
to  consult.  In  other  words,  a  wise  social  policy  must  be 
based  not  simply  on  abstract  social  science,  but  on  the  Natural 
History  of  social  bodies. 

Biehl's  books  are  not  dedicated  merely  to  the  argumentative 
maintenance  of  this  or  of  any  other  position;  they  are  in- 
tended chiefly  as  a  contribution  to  that  knowledge  of  the  Ger- 
man people  on  the  importance  of  which  he  insists.  He  is  less 
occupied  with  urging  his  own  conclusions  than  with  impress- 
ing on  his  readers  the  facts  which  have  led  him  to  those  con- 
clusions. In  the  volume  entitled  "Land  und  Leute,"  which, 
though  published  last,  is  properly  an  introduction  to  the  vol- 
ume entitled  "Die  Btirgerliche  Gesellschaf t, "  he  considers  the 
German  people  in  their  physical-geographical  relations;  he 
compares  the  natural  divisions  of  the  race,  as  determined  by 
land  and  climate,  and  social  traditions,  with  the  artificial  di- 
visions which  are  based  on  diplomacy ;  and  he  traces  the  gen- 
esis and  influences  of  what  we  may  call  the  ecclesiastical 
geography  of  Germany — its  partition  between  Catholicism  and 
Protestantism.  He  shows  that  the  ordinary  antithesis  of 
North  and  South  Germany  represents  no  real  ethnographical 
distinction,  and  that  the  natural  divisions  of  Germany,  found- 
ed on  its  physical  geography,  are  threefold — namely,  the  low 
plains,  the  middle  mountain  region,  and  the  high  mountain 
region,  or  Lower,  Middle,  and  Upper  Germany ;  and  on  this 
primary  natural  division  all  the  other  broad  ethnographical 


RIEHL.  165 

distinctions  of  Germany  will  be  found  to  rest.  The  plains  of 
North  or  Lower  Germany  include  all  the  seaboard  the  nation 
possesses ;  and  this,  together  with  the  fact  that  they  are  trav- 
ersed to  the  depth  of  600  miles  by  navigable  rivers,  makes 
them  the  natural  seat  of  a  trading  race.  Quite  different  is  the 
geographical  character  of  Middle  Germany.  While  the  north- 
ern plains  are  marked  off  into  great  divisions,  by  such  rivers 
as  the  Lower  Ehine,  the  Weser,  and  the  Oder,  running  almost 
in  parallel  lines,  this  central  region  is  cut  up  like  a  mosaic  by 
the  capricious  lines  of  valleys  and  rivers.  Ilere  is  the  region 
in  which  you  find  those  famous  roofs  from  which  the  rain- 
water runs  toward  two  different  seas,  and  the  mountain-tops 
from  which  you  may  look  into  eight  or  ten  German  States. 
The  abundance  of  water-power  and  the  presence  of  extensive 
coal-mines  allow  of  a  very  diversified  industrial  development  in 
Middle  Germany.  In  Upper  Germany,  or  the  high  mountain 
region,  we  find  the  same  symmetry  in  the  lines  of  the  rivers 
as  in  the  north;  almost  all  the  great  Alpine  streams  flow  par- 
allel  with  the  Danube.  But  the  majority  of  these  rivers  are 
neither  navigable  nor  available  for  industrial  objects,  and  in- 
stead of  serving  for  communication,  they  shut  off  one  great 
tract  from  another.  The  slow  development,  the  simple  peas- 
ant-life of  many  districts,  is  here  determined  by  the  mountain 
and  the  river.  In  the  southeast,  however,  industrial  activity 
spreads  through  Bohemia  toward  Austria,  and  forms  a  sort  of 
balance  to  the  industrial  districts  of  the  Lower  Ehine.  Of 
course,  the  boundaries  of  these  three  regions  cannot  be  very 
strictly  defined;  but  an  approximation  to  the  limits  of  Middle 
Germany  may  be  obtained  by  regarding  it  as  a  triangle,  of 
which  one  angle  lies  in  Silesia,  another  in  Aix-la-Chapelle, 
and  a  third  at  Lake  Constance. 

This  triple  division  corresponds  with  the  broad  distinctions 
of  climate.  In  the  northern  plains  the  atmosphere  is  damp 
and  heavy ;  in  the  southern  mountain  region  it  is  dry  and  rare, 
and  there  are  abrupt  changes  of  temperature,  sharp  contrasts 
between  the  seasons,  and  devastating  storms ;  but  in  both  these 
zones  men  are  hardened  by  conflict  with  the  roughnesses  of 
the  climate.  In  Middle  Germany,  on  the  contrary,  there  is 
little  of  this  struggle ;  the  seasons  are  more  equable,  and  the 


166      THE  NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  GERMAN  LIFE: 

mild,  soft  air  of  the  valleys  tends  to  make  the  inhabitants 
luxurious  and  sensitive  to  hardships.  It  is  only  in  exceptional 
mountain  districts  that  one  is  here  reminded  of  the  rough, 
bracing  air  on  the  heights  of  Southern  Germany.  It  is  a  curi- 
ous fact  that,  as  the  air  becomes  gradually  lighter  and  rarer 
from  the  North  German  coast  toward  Upper  Germany,  the 
average  of  suicides  regularly  decreases.  Mecklenburg  has  the 
highest  number,  then  Prussia,  while  the  fewest  suicides  occur 
in  Bavaria  and  Austria. 

Both  the  northern  and  southern  regions  have  still  a  large 
extent  of  waste  lands,  downs,  morasses,  and  heaths;  and  to 
these  are  added,  in  the  south,  abundance  of  snow-fields  and 
naked  rock;  while  in  Middle  Germany  culture  has  almost 
overspread  the  face  of  the  land,  and  there  are  no  large  tracts 
of  waste.  There  is  the  same  proportion  in  the  distribution 
of  forests.  Again,  in  the  north  we  see  a  monotonous  contin- 
uity of  wheat-fields,  potato-grounds,  meadow-lands,  and  vast 
heaths ;  and  there  is  the  same  uniformity  of  culture  over  large 
surfaces  in  the  southern  table-lands  and  the  Alpine  pastures. 
In  Middle  Germany,  on  the  contrary,  there  is  a  perpetual  va- 
riety of  crops  within  a  short  space :  the  diversity  of  land  sur- 
face, and  the  corresponding  variety  in  the  species  of  plants,  are 
an  invitation  to  the  splitting  up  of  estates,  and  this  again  en- 
courages to  the  utmost  the  motley  character  of  the  cultivation. 

According  to  this  threefold  division,  it  appears  that  there 
are  certain  features  common  to  North  and  South  Germany  in 
which  they  differ  from  Central  Germany,  and  the  nature  of 
this  difference  Riehl  indicates  by  distinguishing  the  former 
as  Centralized  Land  and  the  latter  as  Indwid^lal^zed  Land — a 
distinction  which  is  well  symbolized  by  the  fact  that  North 
and  South  Germany  possess  the  great  lines  of  railway  which 
are  the  medium  for  the  traffic  of  the  world,  while  Middle  Ger- 
many is  far  richer  in  lines  for  local  communication,  and  pos- 
sesses the  greatest  length  of  railway  within  the  smallest  space. 
Disregarding  superficialities,  the  East  Frieslanders,  the  Schles- 
wig-Holsteiners,  the  Mecklenburgers,  and  the  Pomeranians 
are  much  more  nearly  allied  to  the  old  Bavarians,  the  Tyro- 
lese,  and  the  Styrians,  than  any  of  these  are  allied  to  the  Saxr 
cms,  the  Thuringians,  or  the  Rhinelanders.  Both  in  North 


RIEHL.  167 

and  South  Germany  original  races  are  still  found  in  large 
masses,  and  popular  dialects  are  spoken ;  you  still  find  there 
thoroughly  peasant  districts,  thorough  villages,  and  also,  at 
great  intervals,  thorough  cities  j  you  still  find  there  a  sense 
of  rank.  In  Middle  Germany,  on  the  contrary,  the  original 
races  are  fused  together  or  sprinkled  hither  and  thither ;  the 
peculiarities  of  the  popular  dialects  are  worn  down  or  con- 
fused ;  there  is  no  very  strict  line  of  demarcation  between  the 
country  and  the  town  population,  hundreds  of  small  towns  and 
large  villages  being  hardly  distinguishable  in  their  character- 
istics; and  the  sense  of  rank,  as  part  of  the  organic  structure 
of  society,  is  almost  extinguished.  Again,  both  in  the  north 
and  south  there  is  still  a  strong  ecclesiastical  spirit  in  the  peo- 
ple, and  the  Pomeranian  sees  Antichrist  in  the  Pope  as  clearly 
as  the  Tyrolese  sees  him  in  Doctor  Luther ;  while  in  Middle 
Germany  the  confessions  are  mingled — they  exist  peaceably 
side  by  side  in  very  narrow  space,  and  tolerance  or  indiffer- 
ence has  spread  itself  widely  even  in  the  popular  mind.  And 
the  analogy,  or  rather  the  causal  relation,  between  the  physi- 
cal geography  of  the  three  regions  and  the  development  of  the 
population  goes  still  further : — 

"For,"  observes  Riehl,  "the  striking  connection  which  has  been 
pointed  out  between  the  local  geological  formations  in  Germany  and  the 
revolutionary  disposition  of  the  people,  has  more  than  a  metaphorical 
significance.  Where  the  primeval  physical  revolutions  of  the  globe  have 
been  the  wildest  in  their  effects,  and  the  most  multiform  strata  have 
been  tossed  together  or  thrown  one  upon  the  other,  it  is  a  very  intelli- 
gible consequence  that  on  a  land  surface  thus  broken  up,  the  population- 
should  sooner  develop  itself  into  small  communities,  and.  that  the  more 
intense  life  generated  in  these  smaller  communities  should  become  the 
most  favorable  nidus  for  the  reception  of  modern  culture,  and  with  this 
a  susceptibility  for  its  revolutionary  ideas  ;  while  a  people  settled  in  a 
region  where  its  groups  are  spread  over  a  large  space  will  persist  much 
more  obstinately  in  the  retention  of  its  original  character.  The  people 
of  Middle  Germany  have  none  of  that  exclusive  one-sidedness  which 
determines  the  peculiar  genius  of  great  national  groups,  just  as  this 
one-sidedness  or  uniformity  is  wanting  to  the  geological  and  geographical 
character  of  their  land." 

This  ethnographical  outline  Riehl  fills  up  with  special  and 
typical  descriptions,  and  then  makes  it  the  starting-point  for 
a  criticism  of  the  actual  political  condition  of  Germany.  The 


168       THE  NATURAL   HISTORY   OF  GERMAN  LIFE: 

volume  is  full  of  vivid  pictures,  as  well  as  penetrating  glances 
into  the  maladies  and  tendencies  of  modern  society.  It  would 
be  fascinating  as  literature,  if  it  were  not  important  for  its 
facts  and  philosophy.  But  we  can  only  commend  it  to  our 
readers,  and  pass  on  to  the  volume  entitled  "  Die  Biirgerliche 
Gesellschaf t, "  from  which  we  have  drawn  our  sketch  of  the 
German  peasantry.  Here  Riehl  gives  us  a  series  of  studies 
in  that  natural  history  of  the  people,  which  he  regards  as  the 
proper  basis  of  social  policy.  He  holds  that,  in  European  so- 
ciety, there  are  three  natural  ranks  or  estates :  the  hereditary 
landed  aristocracy,  the  citizens  or  commercial  class,  and  the 
peasantry  or  agricultural  class.  By  natural  ranks  he  means 
ranks  which  have  their  roots  deep  in  the  historical  structure 
of  society,  and  are  still,  in  the  present,  showing  vitality  above 
ground ;  he  means  those  great  social  groups  which  are  not  only 
distinguished  externally  by  their  vocation,  but  essentially  by 
their  mental  character,  their  habits,  their  mode  of  life, — by 
the  principle  they  represent  in  the  historical  development  of 
society.  In  his  conception  of  the  "  Fourth  Estate  "  he  differs 
from  the  usual  interpretation,  according  to  which  it  is  simply 
equivalent  to  the  Proletariat,  or  those  who  are  dependent 
on  daily  wages,  whose  only  capital  is  their  skill  or  bodily 
strength — factory  operatives,  artisans,  agricultural  laborers, 
to  whom  might  be  added,  especially  in  Germany,  the  day- 
laborers  with  the  quill,  the  literary  proletariat.  This,  Biehl 
observes,  is  a  valid  basis  of  economical  classification,  but  not 
of  social  classification.  In  his  view,  the  Fourth  Estate  is  a 
stratum  produced  by  the  perpetual  abrasion  of  the  other  great 
social  groups ;  it  is  the  sign  and  result  of  the  decomposition 
which  is  commencing  in  the  organic  constitution  of  society. 
Its  elements  are  derived  alike  from  the  aristocracy,  the  bour- 
geoisie, and  the  peasantry.  It  assembles  under  its  banner  the 
deserters  of  historical  society,  and  forms  them  into  a  terrible 
army,  which  is  only  just  awaking  to  the  consciousness  of  its 
corporate  power.  The  tendency  of  this  Fourth  Estate,  by  the 
very  process  of  its  formation,  is  to  do  away  with  the  distinc- 
tive historical  character  of  the  other  estates,  and  to  resolve 
their  peculiar  rank  and  vocation  into  a  uniform  social  relation 
founded  on  an  abstract  conception  of  society.  According  to 


RIEHL.  169 

Riehl's  classification,  the  day-laborers,  whom  the  political 
economist  designates  as  the  Fourth  Estate,  belong  partly  to 
the  peasantry  or  agricultural  class,  and  partly  to  the  citizens 
or  commercial  class. 

Biehl  considers,  in  the  first  place,  the  peasantry  and  aris- 
tocracy as  the  "  Forces  of  social  persistence, "  and,  in  the  sec- 
ond, the  bourgeoisie  and  the  "  fourth  estate  "  as  the  "  Forces  of 
social  movement." 

The  aristocracy,  he  observes,  is  the  only  one  among  these 
four  groups  which  is  denied  by  others  besides  Socialists  to 
have  any  natural  basis  as  a  separate  rank.  It  is  admitted  that 
there  was  once  an  aristocracy  which  had  an  intrinsic  ground 
of  existence ;  but  now,  it  is  alleged,  this  is  an  historical  fossil, 
an  antiquarian  relic,  venerable  because  gray  with  age.  In 
what,  it  is  asked,  can  consist  the  peculiar  vocation  of  the  aris- 
tocracy, since  it  has  no  longer  the  monopoly  of  the  land,  of 
the  higher  military  functions,  and  of  Government  offices,  and 
since  the  service  of  the  Court  has  no  Jonger  any  political  im- 
portance? To  this  Kiehl  replies  that  in  great  revolutionary 
crises,  the  "  men  of  progress "  have  more  than  once  "  abol- 
ished" the  aristocracy.  But  remarkably  enough,  the  aris- 
tocracy has  always  reappeared.  This  measure  of  abolition 
showed  that  the  nobility  were  no  longer  regarded  as  a  real 
class,  for  to  abolish  a  real  class  would  be  an  absurdity.  It  is 
quite  possible  to  contemplate  a  voluntary  breaking  up  of  the 
peasant  or  citizen  class  in  the  socialistic  sense,  but  no  man  in 
his  senses  would  think  of  straightway  "  abolishing "  citizens 
and  peasants.  The  aristocracy,  then,  was  regarded  as  a  sort 
of  cancer,  or  excrescence  of  society.  Nevertheless,  not  only 
has  it  been  found  impossible  to  annihilate  a  hereditary  nobility 
by  decree;  but  also,  the  aristocracy  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury outlived  even  the  self-destructive  acts  of  its  own  perver- 
sity. A  life  which  was  entirely  without  object,  entirely  desti- 
tute of  functions,  would  not,  says  Riehl,  be  so  persistent.  He 
has  an  acute  criticism  of  those  who  conduct  a  polemic  against 
the  idea  of  a  hereditary  aristocracy  while  they  are  proposing 
an  "  aristocracy  of  talent, "  which  after  all  is  based  on  the 
principle  of  inheritance.  The  Socialists  are,  therefore,  only 
consistent  in  declaring  against  an  aristocracy  of  talent.  "  But 


170      THE  NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  GERMAN"  LIFE: 

when  they  have  turned  the  worlcTinto  a  great  Foundling  Hos- 
pital, they  will  still  be  unable  to  eradicate  the  '  privileges  of 
birth.' '  We  nmst  not  follow  him  in  his  criticism,  however; 
nor  can  we  afford  to  do  more  than  mention  hastily  his  inter- 
esting sketch  of  the  mediaeval  aristocracy,  and  his  admonition 
to  the  German  aristocracy  of  the  present  day,  that  the  vitality 
of  their  class  is  not  to  be  sustained  by  romantic  attempts  to 
revive  mediaeval  forms  and  sentiments,  but  only  by  the  exer- 
cise of  functions  as  real  and  salutary  for  actual  society  as 
those  of  the  mediaeval  aristocracy  were  for  the  feudal  age. 
"  In  modern  society  the  divisions  of  rank  indicate  division  of 
labor,  according  to  that  distribution  of  functions  in  the  social 
organism  which  the  historical  constitution  of  society  has  de- 
termined. In  this  way  the  principle  of  differentiation  and 
the  principle  of  unity  are  identical." 

The  elaborate  study  of  the  German  bourgeoisie  which  forms 
the  next  division  of  the  volume  must  be  passed  over ;  but  we 
may  pause  a  moment  to  note  Riehl's  definition  of  the  social 
Philister  (Philistine),  an  epithet  for  which  we  have  no  equiv- 
alent— not  at  all,  however,  for  want  of  the  object  it  repre- 
sents. Most  people  who  read  a  little  German,  know  that  the 
epithet  Philister  originated  in  the  Burschen-Leben,  or  student- 
life  in  Germany,  and  that  the  antithesis  of  Bursch  and  Phi- 
lister  was  equivalent  to  the  antithesis  of  "  gown  "  and  "  town  " ; 
but  since  the  word  has  passed  into  ordinary  language,  it  has 
assumed  several  shades  of  significance  which  have  not  yet  been 
merged  in  a  single  absolute  meaning ;  and  one  of  the  questions 
which  an  English  visitor  in  Germany  will  probably  take  an 
opportunity  of  asking  is,  "  What  is  the  strict  meaning  of  the 
word  Philister?"  Eiehl's  answer  is,  that  the  Philister  is 
one  who  is  indifferent  to  all  social  interests,  all  public  life,  as 
distinguished  from  selfish  and  private  interests;  he  has  no 
sympathy  with  political  and  social  events  except  as  they  af- 
fect his  own  comfort  and  prosperity,  as  they  offer  him  ma- 
terial for  amusement  or  opportunity  for  gratifying  uis  van- 
ity. He  has  no  social  or  political  creed,  but  is  always  of  the 
opinion  which  is  most  convenient  for  the  moment.  He  is  al- 
ways in  the  majority,  and  is  the  main  element  of  unreason  and 
stupidity  in  the  judgment  of  a  "  discerning  public."  It  seem.s 


RIEHL.  171 

presumptuous  to  us  to  dispute  Kiehl's  interpretation  of  a  Ger- 
man word,  but  we  must  think  that,  in  literature,  the  epithet 
Philister  has  usually  a  wider  meaning  than  this — includes  his 
definition  and  something  more.  We  imagine  the  Philister  is 
the  personification  of  the  spirit  which  judges  everything  from 
a  lower  point  of  view  than  the  subject  demands — which  judges 
the  affairs  of  the  parish  from  the  egotistic  or  purely  personal 
point  of  view — which  judges  the  affairs  of  the  nation  from  the 
parochial  point  of  view,  and  does  not  hesitate  to  measure  the 
merits  of  the  universe  from  the  human  point  of  view.  At 
least,  this  must  surely  be  the  spirit  to  which  Goethe  alludes  in 
a  passage  cited  by  Kiehl  himself,  where  he  says  that  the  Ger- 
mans need  not  be  ashamed  of  erecting  a  monument  to  him  as 
well  as  to  Bllicher ;  for  if  Bliicher  had  freed  them  from  the 
French,  he  (Goethe)  had  freed  them  from  the  nets  of  the 
Philister : — 

"Ihr  mogt  mir  immer  ungescheut 

Gleich  Bliichern  Denkmal  setzen ! 

Von  Franzosen  hat  er  each  befreit, 

Ich  von  Philister-Netzen." 

Goethe  could  hardly  claim  to  be  the  apostle  of  public  spirit; 
but  he  is  eminently  the  man  who  helps  us  to  rise  to  a  lofty 
point  of  observation,  so  that  we  may  see  things  in  their  rela- 
tive proportions. 

The  most  interesting  chapters  in  the  description  of  the 
"Fourth  Estate,"  which  concludes  the  volume,  are  those  on* 
the  "  Aristocratic  Proletariat "  and  the  "  Intellectual  Proleta- 
riat." The  Fourth  Estate  in  Germany,  says  Riehl,  has  its 
centre  of  gravity  not,  as  in  England  and  France,  in  the  day- 
laborers  and  factory  operatives,  and  still  less  in  the  degener- 
ate peasantry.  In  Germany,  the  educated  proletariat  is  the 
leaven  that  sets  the  mass  in  fermentation;  the  dangerous 
classes  there  go  about,  not  in  blouses,  but  in  frock-coats ;  they 
begin  with  the  impoverished  prince  and  end  in  the  hungriest 
litterateur.  The  custom  that  all  the  sons  of  a  nobleman  shall 
inherit  their  father's  title,  necessarily  goes  on  multiplying 
that  class  of  aristocrats  who  are  not  only  without  function  but 
without  adequate  provision,  and  who  shrink  from  entering  the 
ranks  of  the  citizens  by  adopting  some  honest  calling.  The 


172      THE  NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  GERMAN  LIFE: 

younger  son  of  a  prince,  says  Riehl,  is  usually  obliged  to  re- 
main without  any  vocation;  and  however  zealously  he  may 
study  music,  painting,  literature,  or  science,  he  can  never  be 
a  regular  musician,  painter,  or  man  of  science;  his  pursuit 
will  be  called  a  "  passion, "  not  a  "  calling, "  and  to  the  end  of 
his  days  he  remains  a  dilettante.  "  But  the  ardent  pursuit 
of  a  fixed  practical  calling  can  alone  satisfy  the  active  man. " 
Direct  legislation  cannot  remedy  this  evil.  The  inheritance 
of  titles  by  younger  sons  is  the  universal  custom,  and  custom 
is  stronger  than  law.  But  if  all  Government  preference  for 
the  "  aristocratic  proletariat "  were  withdrawn,  the  sensible 
men  among  them  would  prefer  emigration,  or  the  pursuit  of 
some  profession,  to  the  hungry  distinction  of  a  title  without 
rents. 

The  intellectual  proletaires  Riehl  calls  the  "church  mili- 
tant "  of  the  Fourth  Estate  in  Germany.  In  no  other  coun- 
try are  they  so  numerous ;  in  no  other  country  is  the  trade  in 
material  and  industrial  capital  so  far  exceeded  by  the  whole- 
sale and  retail  trade,  the  traffic  and  the  usury,  in  the  intellec- 
tual capital  of  the  nation.  Germany  yields  more  intellectual 
produce  than  it  can  use  and  pay  for. 

"This  over-production,  which  is  not  transient  but  permanent,  nay,  is 
constantly  on  the  increase,  evidences  a  diseased  state  of  the  national 
industry,  a  perverted  application  of  industrial  powers,  and  is  a  far  more 
pungent  satire  on  the  national  condition  than  all  the  poverty  of  opera- 
tives and  peasants.  .  .  .  Other  nations  need  not  envy  us  the  preponder- 
ance of  the  intellectual  proletariat  over  the  proletaires  of  manual  labor. 
For  man  more  easily  becomes  diseased  from  over-study  than  from  the 
labor  of  the  hands ;  and  it  5s  precisely  in  the  intellectual  proletariat 
that  there  are  the  most  dangerous  seeds  of  disease.  This  is  the  group 
in  which  the  opposition  between  earnings  and  wants,  between  the  ideal 
social  position  and  the  real,  is  the  most  hopelessly  irreconcilable." 

We  must  unwillingly  leave  our  readers  to  make  acquaint- 
ance for  themselves  with  the  graphic  details  with  which  Riehl 
follows  up  this  general  statement :  but  before  quitting  these 
admirable  volumes,  let  us  say,  lest  our  inevitable  omissions 
should  have  left  room  for  a  different  conclusion,  that  Riehl' s 
conservatism  is  not  in  the  least  tinged  with  the  partisanship  of 
a  class,  with  a  poetic  fanaticism  for  the  past,  or  with  the  prej- 
udice of  a  mind  incapable  of  discerning  the  grander  evolution 


RIEHL.  173 

of  things  to  which  all  social  forms  are  but  temporarily  subser- 
vient. It  is  the  conservatism  of  a  clear-eyed,  practical,  but 
withal  large-minded  man — a  little  caustic,  perhaps,  now  and 
then  in  his  epigrams  on  democratic  doctrinaires  who  have  their 
nostrum  for  all  political  and  social  diseases,  and  on  communis- 
tic theories  which  he  regards  as  "  the  despair  of  the  individual 
in  his  own  manhood,  reduced  to  a  system,"  but  nevertheless 
able  and  willing  to  do  justice  to  the  elements  of  fact  and  rea- 
son in  every  shade  of  opinion  and  every  form  of  effort.  He 
is  as  far  as  possible  from  the  folly  of  supposing  that  the  sun 
will  go  backward  on  the  dial,  because  we  put  the  hands  of  our 
clock  backward ;  he  only  contends  against  the  opposite  folly 
of  decreeing  that  it  shall  be  mid-day,  while  in  fact  the  sun  is 
only  just  touching  the  mountain-tops,  and  all  along  the  valley 
men  are  stumbling  in  the  twilight. 


THKEE   MONTHS  IN   WEIMAE. 

IT  was  between  three  and  four  o'clock,  on  a  fine  morning  in 
August,  that,  after  a  ten  hours'  journey  from  Frankfort,  I 
awoke  at  the  Weimar  station.  No  tipsiness  can  be  more  dead 
to  all  appeals  than  that  which  comes  from  fitful  draughts  of 
sleep  on  a  railway  journey  by  night.  To  the  disgust  of  your 
wakeful  companions,  you  are  totally  insensible  to  the  existence 
of  your  umbrella,  and  to  the  fact  that  your  carpet-bag  is 
stowed  under  your  seat,  or  that  you  have  borrowed  books  and 
tucked  them  behind  the  cushion.  "  What's  the  odds,  so  long 
as  one  can  sleep?"  is  your  philosophic  formula,  and  it  is  not 
until  you  have  begun  to  shiver  on  the  platform  in  the  early 
morning  air  that  you  become  alive  to  property  and  its  duties 
— i.e.,  to  the  necessity  of  keeping  a  fast  grip  upon  it.  Such 
was  my  condition  when  I  reached  the  station  at  Weimar.  The 
ride  to  the  town  thoroughly  roused  me,  all  the  more  because 
the  glimpses  I  caught  from  the  carriage-window  were  ir  start- 
ling contrast  with  my  preconceptions.  The  lines  of  houses 
looked  rough  and  straggling,  and  were  often  interrupted  by 
trees  peeping  out  from  the  gardens  behind.  At  last  we  stopped 
before  the  Erbprinz,  an  inn  of  long  standing  in  the  heart  of 
the  town,  and  were  ushered  along  heavy-looking  in-and-out 
corridors,  such  as  are  found  only  in  German  inns,  into  rooms 
which  overlooked  a  garden  just  like  one  you  may  see  at  the 
back  of  a  farmhouse  in  many  an  English  village. 

A  walk  in  the  morning  in  search  of  lodgings  confirmed  the 
impression  that  Weimar  was  more  like  a  market-town  than 
the  precinct  of  a  Court.  "And  this  is  the  Athens  of  the 
North !  "  we  said.  Materially  speaking,  it  is  more  like  Sparta. 
The  blending  of  rustic  and  civic  life,  the  indications  of  a  cen- 
tral government  in  the  midst  of  very  primitive-looking  objects, 
has  some  distant  analogy  with  the  condition  of  old  Lacedse- 
mon.  The  shops  are  most  of  them  such  as  you  would  see  in 


Portrait  of  Goethe.— Page  175. 


Eliot's  Essays. 


THREE  MONTHS  IN  WEIMAft.  175 

the  back  streets  of  an  English  provincial  town,  and  the  com- 
modities on  sale  are  often  chalked  on  the  doorposts.  A  loud 
rumbling  of  vehicles  may  indeed  be  heard  now  and  then;  but 
the  rumbling  is  loud,  not  because  the  vehicles  are  many,  but 
because  the  springs  are  few.  The  inhabitants  seemed  to  us  to 
have  more  than  the  usual  heaviness  of  Germanity ;  even  their 
stare  was  slow,  like  that  of  herbivorous  quadrupeds.  We  set 
out  with  the  intention  of  exploring  the  town,  and  at  every 
other  turn  we  came  into  a  street  which  took  us  out  of  the 
town,  or  else  into  one  that  led  us  back  to  the  market  from 
which  we  set  out.  One's  first  feeling  was,  How  could  Goethe 
live  here  in  this  dull,  lifeless  village?  The  reproaches  cast 
on  him  for  his  worldliness  and  attachment  to  Court  splendor 
seemed  ludicrous  enough,  and  it  was  inconceivable  that  the 
stately  Jupiter,  in  a  frock-coat,  so  familiar  to  us  all  through 
Ranch's  statuette,  could  have  habitually  walked  along  these 
rude  streets  and  among  these  slouching  mortals.  Not  a  pic- 
turesque bit  of  building  was  to  be  seen ;  there  was  no  quaint- 
ness,  nothing  to  remind  one  of  historical  associations,  nothing 
but  the  most  arid  prosaism. 

This  was  the  impression  produced  by  a  first  morning's  walk 
in  Weimar — an  impression  which  very  imperfectly  represents 
what  Weimar  is,  but  which  is  worth  recording,  because  it  is 
true  as  a  sort  of  back  view.  Our  ideas  were  considerably 
modified  when,  in  the  evening,  we  found  our  way  to  the  Bel- 
vedere chaussee,  a  splendid  avenue  of  chestnut-trees,  two  miles 
in  length,  reaching  from  the  town  to  the  summer  residence 
of  Belvedere ;  when  we  saw  the  Schloss,  and  discovered  the 
labyrinthine  beauties  of  the  park;  indeed  every  day  opened 
to  us  fresh  charms  in  this  quiet  little  valley  and  its  environs. 
To  any  one  who  loves  Nature  in  her  gentle  aspects,  who  de- 
lights in  the  checkered  shade  on  a  summer  morning,  and  in 
a  walk  on  the  corn-clad  upland  at  sunset,  within  sight  of  a 
little  town  nestled  among  the  trees  below,  I  say — come  to 
Weimar.  And  if  you  are  weary  of  English  unrest,  of  that 
society  of  "  eels  in  a  jar,"  where  each  is  trying  to  get  his  head 
above  the  other,  the  somewhat  stupid  well-being  of  the  Wei- 
marians  will  not  be  an  unwelcome  contrast,  for  a  short  time 
at  least.  If  you  care  nothing  about  Goethe  and  Schiller  and 


176  THREE  MONTHS  IN  WEIMAR. 

Herder  and  Wieland,  "why,  so  much  the  worse  for  you — you 
will  miss  many  interesting  thoughts  and  associations;  still, 
Weimar  has  a  charm  independent  of  these  great  names. 

First  among  all  its  attractions  is  the  Park,  which  would  be 
remarkably  beautiful  even  among  English  parks,  and  it  has 
one  advantage  over  all  these — namely,  that  it  is  without  a 
fence.  It  runs  up  to  the  houses,  and  far  out  into  the  corn- 
fields and  meadows,  as  if  it  had  a  "  sweet  will "  of  its  own, 
like  a  river  or  a  lake,  and  had  not  been  planned  and  plant- 
ed by  human  will.  Through  it  flows  the  Ilm, — not  a  clear 
stream,  it  must  be  confessed,  but,  like  all  water,  as  Novalis 
says,  "  an  eye  to  the  landscape. "  Before  we  came  to  Weimar 
we  had  had  dreams  of  boating  on  the  Ilm,  and  we  were  not  a 
little  amused  at  the  difference  between  this  vision  of  our  own 
and  the  reality.  A  few  water-fowl  are  the  only  navigators  of 
the  river,  and  even  they  seem  to  confine  themselves  to  one 
spot,  as  if  they  were  there  purely  in  the  interest  of  the  pic- 
turesque. The  real  extent  of  the  park  is  small,  but  the  walks 
are  so  ingeniously  arranged,  and  the  trees  are  so  luxuriant  and 
various,  that  it  takes  weeks  to  learn  the  turnings  and  wind- 
ings by  heart,  so  as  no  longer  to  have  the  sense  of  novelty. 
In  the  warm  weather  our  great  delight  was  the  walk  which 
follows  the  course  of  the  Ilm,  and  is  overarched  by  tall  trees 
with  patches  of  dark  moss  on  their  trunks,  in  rich  contrast 
with  the  transparent  green  of  the  delicate  leaves,  through 
which  the  golden  sunlight  played,  and  checkered  the  walk  be- 
fore us.  On  one  side  of  this  walk  the  rocky  ground  rises  to 
the  height  of  twenty  feet  or  more,  and  is  clothed  with  mosses 
and  rock-plants.  On  the  other  side  there  are,  every  now  and 
then,  openings, — breaks  in  the  continuity  of  shade,  which 
show  you  a  piece  of  meadow-land,  with  fine  groups  of  trees ; 
and  at  every  such  opening  a  seat  is  placed  under  the  rock, 
where  you  may  sit  and  chat  away  the  sunny  hours,  or  listen 
to  those  delicate  sounds  which  one  might  fancy  came  from  tiny 
bells  worn  on  the  garment  of  Silence  to  make  us  aware  of  her 
invisible  presence.  It  is  along  this  walk  that  you  come  upon 
a  truncated  column,  with  a  serpent  twined  round  it,  devouring 
cakes,  placed  on  the  column  as  offerings, — a  bit  of  rude  sculp- 
ture in  stone.  The  inscription — Genio  loci — enlightens  the 


THREE  MONTHS  IN  WEIMAR.  177 

learned  as  to  the  significance  of  this  symbol,  but  the  people  of 
Weimar,  unedified  by  classical  allusions,  have  explained  the 
sculpture  by  a  story  which  is  an  excellent  example  of  a  modern 
myth.  Once  on  a  time,  say  they,  a  huge  serpent  infested  the 
park,  and  evaded  all  attempts  to  exterminate  him,  until  at 
last  a  cunning  baker  made  some  appetizing  cakes  which  con- 
tained an  effectual  poison,  and  placed  them  in  the  serpent's 
reach,  thus  meriting  a  place  with  Hercules,  Theseus,  and  other 
monster-slayers.  Weimar,  in  gratitude,  erected  this  column 
as  a  memorial  of  the  baker's  feat  and  its  own  deliverance.  A 
little  farther  on  is  the  Borkenhaus,  where  Carl  August  used  to 
play  the  hermit  for  days  together,  and  from  which  he  used  to 
telegraph  to  Goethe  in  his  Gartenhaus.  Sometimes  we  took 
our  shady  walk  in  the  Stern,  the  oldest  part  of  the  park  plan- 
tations, on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river,  lingering  on  our  way 
to  watch  the  crystal  brook  which  hurries  on,  like  a  foolish 
young  maiden,  to  wed  itself  with  the  muddy  Ilm.  The  Stern 
(Star),  a  large  circular  opening  amongst  the  trees,  with  walks 
radiating  from  it,  has  been  thought  of  as  the  place  for  the 
projected  statues  of  Goethe  and  Schiller.  In  Ranch's  model 
for  these  statues  the  poets  are  draped  in  togas,  Goethe,  who 
was  considerably  the  shorter  of  the  two,  resting  his  hand  on 
Schiller's  shoulder;  but  it  has  been  wisely  determined  to  rep- 
resent them  in  their  "  habit  as  they  lived  " ;  so  Eauch'  s  de- 
sign is  rejected.  Against  classical  idealizing  in  portrait  sculp- 
ture, Weimar  has  already  a  sufficient  warning  in  the  colossal 
statue  of  Goethe,  executed  after  Bettina's  design,  which  the 
readers  of  the  "Correspondence  with  a  Child"  may  see  en- 
graved as  a  frontispiece  to  the  second  volume.  This  statue  is 
locked  up  in  an  odd  structure,  standing  in  the  park,  and  look- 
ing like  a  compromise  between  a  church  and  a  summer-house 
(Weimar  does  not  shine  in  its  buildings!)  How  little  real 
knowledge  of  Goethe  must  the  mind  have  that  could  wish  to 
see  him  represented  as  a  naked  Apollo,  with  a  Psyche  at  his 
knee!  The  execution  is  as  feeble  as  the  sentiment  is  false; 
the  Apollo-Goethe  is  a  caricature,  and  the  Psyche  is  simply 
vulgar.  The  statue  was  executed  under  Bettina's  encourage- 
ment, in  the  hope  that  it  would  be  bought  by.  the  King  of 
Prussia ;  but  a  breach  having  taken  place  between  her  and  her 
12 


178  THREE  MONTHS  IN   WEIMAR. 

Royal  friend,  a  purchaser  was  sought  in  the  Grand  Duke  of 
Weimar,  who,  after  transporting  it  at  enormous  expense  from 
Italy,  wisely  shut  it  up  where  it  is  seen  only  by  the  curious. 

As  autumn  advanced  and  the  sunshine  became  precious,  we 
preferred  the  broad  walk  on  the  higher  grounds  of -the  park, 
where  the  masses  of  trees  are  finely  disposed,  leaving  wide 
spaces  of  meadow  which  extend  on  one  side  to  the  Belvedere 
allee  with  its  avenue  of  chestnut-trees,  and  on  the  other  to  the 
little  cliffs  which  I  have  already  described  as  forming  a  wall 
by  the  walk  along  the  Ilm.  Exquisitely  beautiful  were  the 
graceful  forms  of  the  plane-trees,  thrown  in  golden  relief  on 
a  background  of  dark  pines.  Here  we  used  to  turn  and  turn 
again  in  the  autumn  afternoons, — at  first  bright  and  warm, 
then  sombre  with  low-lying  purple  clouds,  and  chill  with 
winds  that  sent  the  leaves  raining  from  the  branches.  The 
eye  here  welcomes,  as  a  contrast,  the  white  facade  of  a  build- 
ing looking  like  a  small  Greek  temple,  placed  on  the  edge  of 
the  cliff,  and  you  at  once  conclude  it  to  be  a  bit  of  pure  orna- 
ment, — a  device  to  set  off  the  landscape ;  but  you  presently 
see  a  porter  seated  near  the  door  of  the  basement  story,  be- 
guiling the  ennui  of  his  sinecure  by  a  book  and  a  pipe,  and 
you  learn  with  surprise  that  this  is  another  retreat  for  ducal 
dignity  to  unbend  and  philosophize  in.  Singularly  ill-adapted 
to  such  a  purpose  it  seems  to  beings  not  ducal.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  Ilm  the  park  is  bordered  by  the  road  leading  to  the 
little  village  of  Ober  Weimar, — another  sunny  walk  which 
has  the  special  attraction  of  taking  one  by  Goethe's  Garten- 
haus,  his  first  residence  at  Weimar.  Inside,  this  Gartenhaus 
is  a  homely  sort  of  cottage,  such  as  many  an  English  noble- 
man's gardener  lives  in;  no  furniture  is  left  in  it,  and  the 
family  wish  to  sell  it.  Outside,  its  aspect  became  to  us  like 
that  of  a  dear  friend,  whose  irregular  features  and  rusty 
clothes  have  a  peculiar  charm.  It  stands,  with  its  bit  of 
garden  and  orchard,  on  a  pleasant  slope,  fronting  the  west; 
before  it  the  park  stretches  one  of  its  meadowy  openings  to 
the  trees  which  fringe  the  Ilm,  and  between  this  meadow  and 
the  garden  hedge  lies  the  said  road  to  Ober  Weimar.  A  grove 
of  weeping  birches  sometimes  tempted  us  to  turn  out  of  this 
road  up  to  the  fields  at  the  top  of  the  slope,  on  which  not  only 


THREE  MONTHS  IN  WEIMAR.  179 

the  Gartenhaus  but  several  other  modest  villas  are  placed. 
From  this  little  height  one  sees  to  advantage  the  plantations 
of  the  park  in  their  autumnal  coloring ;  the  town  with  its  steep- 
roofed  church,  and  castle  clock-tower,  painted  a  gay  green; 
the  bushy  line  of  the  Belvedere  chaussee,  and  Belvedere  itself 
peeping  on  an  eminence  from  its  nest  of  trees.  Here,  too, 
was  the  place  for  seeing  a  lovely  sunset, — such  a  sunset  as 
September  sometimes  gives  us, — when  the  western  horizon  is 
like  a  rippled  sea  of  gold,  sending  over  the  whole  hemisphere 
golden  vapors,  which,  as  they  near  the  east,  are  subdued  to  a 
deep  rose-color. 

The  Schloss  is  rather  a  stately,  ducal-looking  building,  form- 
ing three  sides  of  a  quadrangle.  Strangers  are  admitted  to 
see  a  suit  of  rooms  called  the  Dichter-Zimmer  (Poets'  Eooms), 
dedicated  to  Goethe,  Schiller,  and  Wieland.  The  idea  of 
these  rooms  is  really  a  pretty  one :  in  each  of  them  there  is 
a  bust  of  the  poet  who  is  its  presiding  genius,  and  the  walls 
of  the  Schiller  and  Goethe  rooms  are  covered  with  frescos 
representing  scenes  from  their  works.  The  Wieland  room  is 
much  smaller  than  the  other  two,  and  serves  as  an  ante-cham- 
ber to  them ;  it  is  also  decorated  more  sparingly,  but  the  ara- 
besques on  the  walls  are  very  tastefully  designed,  and  satisfy 
one  better  than  the  ambitious  compositions  from  Goethe  and 
Schiller. 

A  more  interesting  place  to  visitors  is  the  library,  which 
occupies  a  large  building  not  far  from  the  Schloss.  The  prin- 
cipal Saal,  surrounded  by  a  broad  gallery,  is  ornamented  with 
some  very  excellent  busts  and  some  very  bad  portraits.  Of 
the  busts,  the  most  remarkable  is  that  of  Gluck,  by  Houdon 
— a  striking  specimen  of  the  real  in  art.  The  sculptor  has 
given  every  scar  made  by  the  small-pox;  he  has  left  the  nose 
as  pug  and  insignificant,  and  the  mouth  as  common,  as  Nature 
made  them;  but  then  he  has  done  what,  doubtless,  Nature 
also  did — he  has  spread  over  those  coarsely  cut  features  the 
irradiation  of  genius.  A  specimen  of  the  opposite  style  in  art 
is  Trippel's  bust  of  Goethe  as  the  young  Apollo,  also  fine  in 
its  way.  It  was  taken  when  Goethe  was  in  Italy;  and  in  the 
"  Italianische  Reise,"  mentioning  the  progress  of  the  bust,  he 
says  that  he  sees  little  likeness  to  himself,  but  is  not  discon- 


180  THREE  MONTHS  IN  WEIMAR. 

tented  that  he  should  go  forth  to  the  world  as  such  a  good- 
looking  fellow — hubscher  Bursch.  This  bust,  however,  is  a 
frank  idealization :  when  an  artist  tells  us  that  the  ideal  of  a 
Greek  god  divides  his  attention  with  his  immediate  subject, 
we  are  warned.  But  one  gets  rather  irritated  with  idealiza- 
tion in  portrait  when,  as  in  Dannecker's  bust  of  Schiller,  one 
has  been  misled  into  supposing  that  Schiller's  brow  was  square 
and  massive,  while,  in  fact,  it  was  receding.  We  say  this 
partly  on  the  evidence  of  his  skull,  a  cast  of  which  is  kept  in 
the  library,  so  that  we  could  place  it  in  juxtaposition  with  the 
bust.  The  story  of  this  skull  is  curious.  When  it  was  deter- 
mined to  disinter  Schiller's  remains,  that  they  might  repose 
in  company  with  those  of  Carl  August  and  Goethe,  the  ques- 
tion of  identification  was  found  to  be  a  difficult  one,  for  his 
bones  were  mingled  with  those  of  ten  insignificant  fellow- 
mortals.  When,  however,  the  eleven  skulls  were  placed  in 
juxtaposition,  a  large  number  of  persons  who  had  known 
Schiller,  separately  and  successively  fixed  upon  the  same  skull 
as  his,  and  their  evidence  was  clinched  by  the  discovery  that 
the  teeth  of  this  skull  corresponded  to  the  statement  of  Schil- 
ler's servant,  that  his  master  had  lost  no  teeth,  except  one, 
which  he  specified.  Accordingly  it  was  decided  that  this  was 
Schiller's  skull,  and  the  comparative  anatomist,  Loder,  was 
sent  for  from  Jena  to  select  the  bones  which  completed  the 
skeleton. '  The  evidence  certainly  leaves  room  for  a  doubt ;  but 
the  receding  forehead  of  the  skull  agrees  with  the  testimony 
of  persons  who  knew  Schiller,  that  he  had,  as  Rauch  said  to 
us,  a  "  miserable  forehead " ;  it  agrees,  also,  with  a  beautiful 
miniature  of  Schiller,  taken  when  he  was  about  twenty.  This 
miniature  is  deeply  interesting;  it  shows  us  a  youth  whose 
clearly  cut  features,  with  the  mingled  fire  and  melancholy  of 
their  expression,  could  hardly  have  been  passed  with  indiffer- 
ence; it  has  the  langer  Gdnsehals  (long  goose-neck)  which  he 
gives  to  his  Karl  Moor;  but  instead  of  the  black,  sparkling 
eyes,  and  the  gloomy,  overhanging,  bushy  e'yebrows  he  chose 

'I  tell  this  story  from  my  recollection  of  Stahr's  account  in  bis 
"Weimar  und  Jena,"  an  account  which  was  confirmed  to  me  by  residents 
in  Weimar  ;  but  as  I  have  not  the  book  by  me,  I  eannot  test  the  accuracy 
of  uiy  memory. 


THREE  MONTHS  IN  WEIMAR.  181 

for  his  robber  hero,  it  has  the  fine  wavy,  auburn  locks,  and 
the  light-blue  eyes  which  belong  to  our  idea  of  pure  German 
race.  We  may  be  satisfied  that  we  know  at  least  the  form 
of  Schiller's  features,  for  in  this  particular  his  busts  and 
portraits  are  in  striking  accordance;  unlike  the  busts  and 
portraits  of  Goethe,  which  are  a  proof,  if  any  were  wanted, 
how  inevitably  subjective  art  is,  even  when  it  professes  to  be 
purely  imitative — how  the  most  active  perception  gives  us 
rather  a  reflex  of  what  we  think  and  feel,  than  the  real  sum 
of  objects  before  us.  The  Goethe  of  Rauch  or  of  Schwan- 
thaler  is  widely  different  in  form,  as  well  as  expression,  from 
the  Goethe  of  Stieler ;  and  Winterberger,  the  actor,  who  knew 
Goethe  intimately,  told  us  that  to  him  not  one  of  all  the  Mke- 
nesses,  sculptured  or  painted,  seemed  to  have  more  than  a 
faint  resemblance  to  their  original.  There  is,  indeed,  one 
likeness,  taken  in  his  old  age,  and  preserved  in  the  library, 
which  is  startling  from  the  conviction  it  produces  of  close  re- 
semblance, and  Winterberger  admitted  it  to  be  the  best  he 
had  seen.  It  is  a  tiny  miniature  painted  on  a  small  cup,  of 
Dresden  china,  and  is  so  wonderfully  executed,  that  a  magni- 
fying-glass  exhibits  the  perfection  of  its  texture  as  if  it  were 
a  flower  or  a  butterfly's  wing.  It  is  more  like  Stieler' s  por- 
trait than  any  other;  the  massive  neck,  unbent  though  with- 
ered, rises  out  of  his  dressing-gown,  and  supports  majestically 
a  head,  from  which  one  might  imagine  (though,  alas !  it  never 
is  so  in  reality)  that  the  discipline  of  seventy  years  had 
purged  away  all  meaner  elements  than  those  of  the  sage  and 
the  poet — a  head  which  might  serve  as  a  type  of  sublime  old 
age.  Amongst  the  collection  of  toys  and  trash,  melancholy 
records  of  the  late  Grand  Duke's  eccentricity,  which  occupy 
the  upper  rooms  of  the  library,  there  are  some  precious  relics 
hanging  together  in  a  glass  case,  which  almost  betray  one  into 
sympathy  with  "holy  coat"  worship.  They  are — Luther's 
gown,  the  coat  in  which  Gustavus  Adolphus  was  shot,  and 
Goethe's  Court  coat  and  Schlafrock.  What  a  rush  of  thoughts 
from  the  mingled  memories  of  the  passionate  reformer,  the 
heroic  warrior,  and  the  wise  singer! 

The  only  one  of  its  great  men  to  whom  Weimar  has  at  pres- 
ent erected  a  statue  in  the  open  air  is  Herder.     His  statue, 


182  THREE  MONTHS  IN  WEIMAR. 

erected  in  1850,  stands  in  what  is  called  the  Herder  Platz, 
with  its  back  to  the  church  in  which  he  preached;  in  the 
right  hand  is  a  roll  bearing  his  favorite  motto — Licht,  Liebe, 
Leben  (Light,  Love,  Life),  and  on  the  pedestal  is  the  inscrip- 
tion—  Von  Deutschen  oiler  Lander  (from  Germans  of  all  lands). 
This  statue,  which  is  by  Schaller  of  Munich,  is  very  much 
admired;  but,  remembering  the  immortal  description  in  the 
"Dichtung  uud  Wahrheit,"  of  Herder's  appearance  when 
Goethe  saw  him  for  the  first  time  at  Strasburg,  I  was  disap- 
pointed with  the  parsonic  appearance  of  the  statue,  as  well  as 
of  the  bust  in  the  library.  The  part  of  the  town  which  im- 
prints itself  on  the  memory,  next  to  the  Herder  Platz,  is  the 
Markt,  a  cheerful  square,  made  smart  by  a  new  Rath-haus. 
Twice  a  week  it  is  crowded  with  stalls  and  country  people ; 
and  it  is  the  very  pretty  custom  for  the  band  to  play  in  the 
balcony  of  the  Rath-haus  about  twenty  minutes  every  market- 
day  to  delight  the  ears  of  the  peasantry.  A  head-dress  worn 
by  many  of  the  old  women,  and  here  and  there  by  a  young 
one,  is,  I  think,  peculiar  to  Thuringia.  Let  the  fair  reader 
imagine  half  a  dozen  of  her  broadest  French  sashes  dyed 
black,  and  attached  as  streamers  to  the  back  of  a  stiff  black 
skull-cap,  ornamented  in  front  with  a  large  bow,  which  stands 
out  like  a  pair  of  donkey's  ears;  let  her  further  imagine,  min- 
gled with  the  streamers  of  ribbon,  equally  broad  pendants  of 
a  thick  woollen  texture,  something  like  the  fringe  of  an  urn- 
rug, — and  she  will  have  an  idea  of  the  head-dress  in  which 
I  have  seen  a  Thuringian  damsel  figure  on  a  hot  summer's 
day.  Two  houses  in  the  Markt  are  pointed  out  as  those  from 
which  Tetzel  published  his  indulgences  and  Luther  thundered 
against  them ;  but  it  is  difficult  to  one's  imagination  to  conjure 
up  scenes  of  theological  controversy  in  Weimar,  where,  from 
princes  down  to  pastry-cooks,  rationalism  is  taken  as  a  matter 
of  course. 

Passing  along  the  Schiller-strasse,  a  broad  pleasant  street, 
one  is  thrilled  by  the  inscription,  Hier  wohnte  Schiller,  over  the 
door  of  a  small  house  with  casts  in  its  bow-window.  Mount 
up  to  the  second  story  and  you  will  see  Schiller's  study  very 
nearly  as  it  was  when  he  worked  in  it.  It  is  a  cheerful  room 
with  three  windows,  two  toward  the  street  and  one  looking 


THREE  MONTHS  IN  WEIMAR.  183 

on  a  little  garden  which  divides  his  house  from  the  neighbor- 
ing one.  The  writing-table,  which  he  notes  as  an  important 
purchase  in  one  of  his  letters  to  Kb'rner,  and  in  one  of  the 
drawers  of  which  he  used  to  keep  rotten  apples  for  the  sake 
of  their  scent,  stands  near  the  last-named  window,  so  that  its 
light  would  fall  on  his  left  hand.  On  another  side  of  the 
room  is  his  piano,  with  his  guitar  lying  upon  it;  and  above 
these  hangs  an  ugly  print  of  an  Italian  scene,  which  has  a 
.companion  equally  ugly  on  another  wall.  Strange  feelings  it 
awakened  in  me  to  run  my  ringers  over  the  keys  of  the  little 
piano  and  call  forth  its  tones,  now  so  queer  and  feeble,  like 
those  of  an  invalided  old  woman  whose  voice  could  once  make 
;a  heart  beat  with  fond  passion  or  soothe  its  angry  pulses  into 
calm.  The  bedstead  on  which  Schiller  died  has  been  removed 
into  the  study,  from  the  small  bedroom  behind,  which  is  now 
empty.  A  little  table  is  placed  close  to  the  head  of  the  bed, 
with  his  driuking-glass  upon  it,  and  on  the  wall  above  the, 
bedstead  there  is  a  beautiful  sketch  of  him  lying  dead.  He 
used  to  occupy  the  whole  of  the  second  floor.  It  contains,  be- 
sides the  study  and  bedroom,  an  ante-chamber,  now  furnished 
with  casts  and  prints  on  sale,  in  order  to  remunerate  the  cus- 
todiers  of  the  house,  and  a  salon  tricked  out,  since  his  death, 
with  a  symbolical  cornice,  statues,  and  a  carpet  worked  by  the 
ladies  of  Weimar. 

Goethe's  house  is  much  more  important-looking,  but,  to 
English  eyes,  far  from  being  the  palatial  residence  which 
might  be  expected,  from  the  descriptions  of  German  writers. 
The  entrance-hall  is  indeed  rather  imposing,  with  its  statues 
in  niches,  and  its  broad  staircase,  but  the  rest  of  the  house  is 
not  proportionately  spacious  and  elegant.  The  only  part  of 
the  house  open  to  the  public — and  this  only  on  a  Friday— is 
the  principal  suite  of  rooms  which  contain  his  collection  of 
casts,  pictures,  cameos,  etc.  This  collection  is  utterly  insig- 
nificant, except  as  having  belonged  to  him;  and  one  turns 
away  from  bad  pictures  and  familiar  casts,  to  linger  over  the 
manuscript  of  the  wonderful  "  Eomische  Elegien, "  written  by 
himself  in  the  Italian  character.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that 
a  large  sum  offered  for  this  house  by  the  German  Diet,  was 
refused  by  the  Goethe  family,  in  the  hope,  it  is  said,  of  ob- 


184  THREE  MONTHS  IN  WEIMAR. 

taining  a  still  larger  sum  from  that  mythical  English  Croesus 
always  ready  to  turn  fabulous  sums  into  dead  capital,  who 
haunts  the  imagination  of  Continental  people.  One  of  the 
most  fitting  tributes  a  nation  can  pay  to  its  great  dead,  is  to 
make  their  habitation,  like  their  works,  a  public  possession, 
a  shrine  where  affectionate  reverence  may  be  more  vividly 
reminded  that  the  being  who  has  bequeathed  to  us  immortal 
thoughts  or  immortal  deeds,  had  to  endure  the  daily  struggle 
with  the  petty  details,  perhaps  with  the  sordid  cares  of  this 
working-day  world;  and  it  is  a  sad  pity  that  Goethe's  study, 
bedroom,  and  library,  so  fitted  to  call  up  that  kind  of  sym- 
pathy, because  they  are  preserved  just  as  he  left  them,  should 
be  shut  out  from  all  but  the  specially  privileged.  We  were 
happy  enough  to  be  amongst  these, — to  look  through  the  mist 
of  rising  tears  at  the  dull  study  with  its  two  small  windows, 
and  without  a  single  object  chosen  for  the, sake  of  luxury  or 
beauty;  at  the  dark  little  bedroom  with  the  bed  on  which  he 
died,  and  the  arm-chair  where  he  took  his  morning  coffee  as 
he  read;  at  the  library  with  its  common  deal  shelves,  and 
books  containing  his  own  paper  marks.  In  the  presence  of 
this  hardy  simplicity,  the  contrast  suggests  itself  of  the  study 
at  Abbotsford  with  its  elegant  Gothic  fittings,  its  delicious 
easy-chair,  and  its  oratory  of  painted  glass. 

We  were  very  much  amused  at  the  privacy  with  which  peo- 
ple keep  their  shops  at  Weimar.  Some  of  them  have  not  so 
much  as  their  names  written  up ;  and  there  is  so  much  indif- 
ference of  manner  toward  customers,  that  one  might  suppose 
every  shopkeeper  was  a  salaried  functionary  employed  by  Gov- 
ernment. The  distribution  of  commodities,  too,  is  carried  on 
according  to  a  peculiar  Weiniarian  logic :  we  bought  our  lemons 
at  a  ropemaker's,  and  should  not  have  felt  ourselves  very  un- 
reasonable if  we  had  asked  for  shoes  at  a  stationer's.  As  to 
competition,  I  should  think  a  clever  tradesman  or  artificer  is 
almost  as  free  from  it  at  Weimar  as  JEsculapius  or  Vulcan  in 
the  days  of  old  Olympus.  Here  is  an  illustration.  Our 
landlady's  husband  was  called  the  ".<?&>•*»•/•  Rabenhorst,"  by 
way  of  distinguishing  him  from  a  brother  of  his  who  was  the 
reverse  of  sweet.  This  Rabenhorst,  who  was  not  sweet,  but 
who  nevertheless  dealt  in  sweets,  for  he  was  a  confectioner, 


MONTHS  IX  WEIMAR.  185 

was  so  utter  a  rogue  that  any  transaction  with  him  was  avoided 
almost  as  much  as  if  he  had  been  the  Evil  One  himself,  yet 
so  clever  a  rogue  that  he  always  managed  to  keep  on  the  windy 
side  of  the  law.  Nevertheless,  he  had  so  many  dainties  in 
the  confectionery  line — so  viel  Siissigkeiten  und  Leckerbissen 
— that  people  bent  on  giving  a  fine  entertainment  were  at  last 
constrained  to  say,  "After  all,  I  must  go  to  Rabenhorst"  ; 
and  so  he  got  abundant  custom,  in  spite  of  general  detestation. 
A  very  fair  dinner  is  to  be  had  at  several  tables  d'hote  in 
Weimar  for  ten  or  twelve  groschen  (a  shilling  or  fifteen- 
pence).  The  Germans  certainly  excel  us  in  their  Mehlspeise, 
or  farinaceous  puddings,  and  in  their  mode  of  cooking  vege- 
tables ;  they  are  bolder  and  more  imaginative  in  their  combi- 
nation of  sauces,  fruits,  and  vegetables  with  animal  food,  and 
they  are  faithful  to  at  least  one  principle  of  dietetics — variety. 
The  only  thing  at  table  we  have  any  pretext  for  being  super- 
cilious about  is  the  quality  and  dressing  of  animal  food.  The 
meat  at  a  table  d'hote  in  Thuringia,  and  even  Berlin,  except 
in  the  very  first  hotels,  bears  about  the  same  relation  to  ours 
as  horse-flesh  probably  bears  to  German  beef  and  mutton; 
.and  an  Englishman  with  a  bandage  over  his  eyes  would  often 
be  sorely  puzzled  to  guess  the  kind  of  flesh  he  was  eating. 
For  example,  the  only  flavor  we  could  ever  discern  in  hare, 
which  is  a  very  frequent  dish,  was  that  of  the  more  or  less 
disagreeable  fat  which  predominated  in  the  dressing;  and 
roast  meat  seems  to  be  considered  an  extravagance  rarely  ad- 
missible. A  melancholy  sight  is  a  flock  of  Weimarian  sheep, 
followed  or  led  by  their  shepherd.  They  are  as  dingy  as  Lon- 
don sheep,  and  far  more  skinny;  indeed  an  Englishman  who 
dined  with  us  said  the  sight  of  the  sheep  had  set  him  against 
mutton.  Still,  the  variety  of  dishes  you  get  for  ten  groschen 
is  something  marvellous  to  those  who  have  been  accustomed  to 
English  charges,  and  among  the  six  courses  it  is  not  a  great 
evil  to  find  a  dish  or  two  the  reverse  of  appetizing.  I  sup- 
pose, however,  that  the  living  at  tables  d'hote  gives  one  no  cor- 
rect idea  of  the  mode  in  which  the  people  live  at  home.  The 
basis  of  the  national  food  seems  to  be  raw  ham  and  sausage, 
with  a  copious  superstratum  of  Blaukraut.  Sauerkraut,  and 
black  bread.  Sausage  seems  to  be  to  the  German  what  pota- 


186  THREE  MONTHS  IN  WEIMAR. 

toes  were  to  the  Irish — the  sine  qua  non  of  bodily  sustenance. 
Goethe  asks  the  Frau  von  Stein  to  send  him  so  eine  Wurst 
when  he  wants  to  have  a  makeshift  dinner  away  from  home ; 
and  in  his  letters  to  Kestner  he  is  in  enthusiastic  about  the 
delights  of  dining  on  Blaukraut  and  Leberwurst  (blue  cab- 
bage and  liver  sausage).  If  Kraut  and  Wurst  may  be  called 
the  solid  prose  of  Thuringian  diet,  fish  and  Kuchen  (generally 
a  heavy  kind  of  fruit  tart)  are  the  poetry :  the  German  appe- 
tite disports  itself  with  these  as  the  English  appetite  does  with 
ices  and  whipped  creams. 

At  the  beginning  of  August,  when  we  arrived  in  Weimar, 
almost  every  one  was  away — "at  the  Baths,"  of  course — ex- 
cept the  tradespeople.  As  birds  nidify  in  the  spring,  so  Ger- 
mans wash  themselves  in  the  summer ;  their  Waschungstrleb 
acts  strongly  only  at  a  particular  time  of  the  year ;  during  all 
the  rest,  apparently,  a  decanter  and  a  sugar-basin  or  pie-dish 
are  an  ample  toilet-service  for  them.  We  were  quite  con- 
tented, however,  that  it  was  not  yet  the  Weimar  "season," 
fashionably  speaking,  since  it  was  the  very  best  time  for  en- 
joying something  far  better  than  Weimar  gayeties — the  lovely 
park  and  environs.  It  was  pleasant,  too,  to  see  the  good  bo- 
vine citizens  enjoying  life  in  their  quiet  fashion.  Unlike  our 
English  people,  they  take  pleasure  into  their  calculations,  and 
seem  regularly  to  set  aside  part  of  their  time  for  recreation. 
It  is  understood  that  something  is  to  be  done  in  life  besides 
business  and  housewifery :  the  women  take  their  children  and 
their  knitting  to  the  Erholung,  or  walk  with  their  husbands 
to  Belvedere,  or  in  some  other  direction  where  a  cup  of  coffee 
is  to  be  had.  The  HJrholung,  by  the  way,  is  a  pretty  garden, 
with  shady  walks,  abundant  seats,  an  orchestra,  a  ball-room, 
and  a  place  for  refreshments.  The  higher  classes  are  sub- 
scribers and  visitors  here  as  well  as  the  bourgeoisie;  but  there 
are  several  resorts  of  a  similar  kind  frequented  by  the  latter 
exclusively.  The  reader  of  Goethe  will  remember  his  little 
poem,  "  Die  Lustigen  von  Weimar, "  which  still  indicates  the 
round  of  amusements  in  this  simple  capital :  the  walk  to  Bel- 
vedere or  Tiefurt;  the  excursion  to  Jena,  or  some  other  trip, 
not  made  expensive  by  distance;  the  round  game  at  cards; 
the  dance ;  the  theatre ;  and  so  many  other  enjoyments  to  be 


THREE  MONTHS  IN  WEIMAR.  187 

had  by  a  people  not  bound  to  give  dinner-parties  and  "  keep  up 
a  position." 

"  It  is  charming  to  see  how  real  an  amusement  the  theatre  is 
to  the  Weimar  people.  The  greater  number  of  places  are  oc- 
cupied by  subscribers,  and  there  is  no  fuss  about  toilet  or  es- 
cort. The  ladies  come  alone,  and  slip  quietly  into  their  places 
without  need  of  "  protection '- — a  proof  of  civilization  perhaps 
more  than  equivalent  to  our  pre-eminence  in  patent  locks  and 
carriage  springs — and  after  the  performance  is  over,  you  may 
see  the  same  ladies  following  their  servants,  with  lanterns, 
through  streets  innocent  of  gas,  in  which  an  oil-lamp,  sus- 
pended from  a  rope  slung  across  from  house  to  house,  occa- 
sionally reveals  to  you  the  shafts  of  a  cart  or  omnibus  conven- 
iently placed  for  you  to  run  upon  them. 

A  yearly  autumn  festival  at  Weimar  is  the  Vogelschiessen, 
or  Bird-shooting ;  but  the  reader  must  not  let  his  imagination 
wander  at  this  word  into  fields  and  brakes.  The  bird  here 
concerned  is  of  wood,  and  the  shooters,  instead  of  wandering 
over  breezy  down  and  common,  are  shut  up,  day  after  day,  in 
a  room  clouded  with  tobacco-smoke,  that  they  may  take  their 
turn  at  shooting  with  the  rifle  from  the  window  of  a  closet 
about  the  size  of  a  sentinel's  box.  However,  this  is  a  mighty 
enjoyment  to  the  Thuringian  yeomanry,  and  an  occasion  of 
profit  to  our  friend  Punch,  and  other  itinerant  performers ; 
for  while  the  Vogelschiessen  lasts,  a  sort  of  fair  is  held  in  the 
field  where  the  marksmen  assemble. 

Among  the  quieter  every-day  pleasures  of  the  Weimariaus, 
perhaps  the  most  delightful  is  the  stroll  on  a  bright  afternoon 
or  evening  to  the  Duke's  summer  residence  of  Belvedere,  about 
two  miles  from  Weimar.  As  I  have  said,  a  glorious  avenue 
of  chestnut-trees  leads  all  the  way  from  the  town  to  the  en- 
trance of  the  grounds,  which  are  open  to  all  the  world  as  much 
as  to  the  Duke  himself.  Close  to  the  palace  and  its  subsidiary 
buildings  there  is  an  inn,  for  the  accommodation  of  the  good 
people  who  come  to  take  dinner  or  any  other  meal  here,  by 
way  of  holiday-making.  A  sort  of  pavilion  stands  on  a  spot 
commanding  a  lovely  view  of  Weimar  and  its  valley,  and  here 
the  Weimarians  constantly  come  on  summer  and  autumn  even- 
•  ings  to  smoke  a  cigar,  or  drink  a  cup  of  coffee.  In  one  wing 


1S8  THREE  MONTHS  IN  WEIMAR. 

of  the  little  palace,  which  is  made  smart  by  wooden  cupolas, 
with  gilt  pinnacles,  there  is  a  saloon,  which  I  recommend  to 
the  imitation  of  tasteful  people  in  their  country  houses.  It 
has  no  decoration  but  that  of  natural  foliage :  ivy  is  trained  at 
regular  intervals  up  the  pure  white  walls,  and  all  round  the 
edge  of  the  ceiling,  so  as  to  form  pilasters  and  a  cornice;  ivy 
again,  trained  on  trellis- work,  forms  a  blind  to  the  window, 
which  looks  toward  the  entrance  court;  and  beautiful  ferns, 
arranged  in  tall  baskets,  are  placed  here  and  there  against  the 
walls.  The  furniture  is  of  light  cane-work.  Another  pretty 
thing  here  is  the  Natur-Theater — a  theatre  constructed  with 
living  trees,  trimmed  into  walls  and  side  scenes.  We  pleased 
ourselves  for  a  little  while  with  thinking  that  this  was  one  of 
the  places  where  Goethe  acted  in  his  own  dramas,  but  we 
afterward  learned  that  it  was  not  made  until  his  acting  days 
were  over.  The  inexhaustible  charm  of  Belvedere,  however,  is 
the  grounds,  which  are  laid  out  with  a  taste  worthy  of  a  first- 
rate  landscape-gardener.  The  tall  and  graceful  limes,  plane- 
trees,  and  weeping  birches,  the  little  basins  of  water  here  and 
there,  with  fountains  playing  in  the  middle  of  them,  and  with 
a  fringe  of  broad-leaved  plants,  or  other  tasteful  bordering 
round  them,  the  gradual  descent  toward  the  river,  and  the  hill 
clothed  with  firs  and  pines  on  the  opposite  side,  forming  a  fine 
dark  background  for  the  various  and  light  foliage  of  the  trees 
that  ornament  the  gardens — all  this  we  went  again  and  again 
to  enjoy,  from  the  time  when  everything  was  of  a  vivid  green 
until  the  Virginian  creepers  which  festooned  the  silver  stems 
of  the  birches  were  bright  scarlet,  and  the  touch  of  autumn  had 
turned  all  the  green  to  gold.  One  of  the  spots  to  linger  in  is 
at  a  semicircular  seat  against  an  artificial  rock,  on  which  are 
placed  large  glass  globes  of  different  colors.  It  is  wonderful  to 
see  with  what  minute  perfection  the  scenery  around  is  painted 
in  these  globes.  Each  is  like  a  pre-Raphaelite  picture,  with 
every  little  detail  of  gravelly  walk,  mossy  bank,  and  delicately 
leaved,  interlacing  boughs,  presented  in  accurate  miniature. 

In  the  opposite  direction  to  Belvedere  lies  Tiefurt,  with  its 
small  park  and  tiny  chateau,  formerly  the  residence  of  the 
Duchess  Amalia,  the  mother  of  Carl  August,  and  the  friend 
and  patroness  of  Wieland,  but  now  apparently  serving  as  little 


THEEE  MONTHS  IN  WEIMAR,  189 

else  than  a  receptacle  for  the  late  Duke  Carl  Friederich's 
rather  childish  collections.  In  the  second  story  there  is  a  suite 
of  rooms,  so  small  that  the  largest  of  them  does  not  take  up 
as  much  spacS  as  a  good  dining-table,  and  each  of  these  doll- 
house  rooms  is  crowded  with  prints,  old  china,  and  all  sorts 
of  knick-knacks  and  rococo  wares.  The  park  is  a  little  para- 
dise. The  Ilm  is  seen  here  to  the  best  advantage :  it  is  clearer 
than  at  Weimar,  and  winds  about  gracefully  between  the 
banks,  on  one  side  steepr  and  curtained  with  turf  and  shrubs, 
or  fine  trees.  It  was  here,  at  a  point  where  the  bank  forms  a 
promontory  into  the  river,  that  Goethe  and  his  Court  friends 
got  up  the  performance  of  an  operetta,  "Die  Fischerin,"  by 
torchlight.  On  the  way  to  Tiefurt  lies  the  Webicht,  a  beau- 
tiful wood,  through  which  runs  excellent  carriage-roads  and 
grassy  footpaths.  It  was  a  rich  enjoyment  to  skirt  this  wood 
along  the  Jena  road,  and  see  the  sky  arching  grandly  down 
over  the  open  fields  on  the  other  side  of  us,  the  evening  red 
flushing  the  west  over  the  town,  and  the  stars  coming  out  as 
if  to  relieve  the  sun  in  its  watch ;  or  to  take  the  winding  road 
through  the  wood,  under  its  tall  overarching  trees,  now  bend- 
ing their  mossy  trunks  forward,  now  standing  with  the  stately 
erectness  of  lofty  pillars ;  or  to  saunter  along  the  grassy  foot- 
paths where  the  sunlight  streamed  through  the  fairy -like  foliage 
of  the  silvery  barked  birches. 

Stout  pedestrians  who  go  to  Weimar  will  do  well  to  make 
a  walking  excursion,  as  we  did,  to  Ettersburg,  a  more  distant 
summer  residence  of  the  Grand  Duke,  interesting  to  us  before- 
hand as  the  scene  of  private  theatricals  and  sprees  in  the 
Goethe  days.  We  set  out  on  one  of  the  brightest  and  hottest 
mornings  that  August  ever  bestowed,  and  it  required  some 
resolution  to  trudge  along  the  shadeless  chaussee,  which 
formed  the  first  two  or  three  miles  of  our  way.  One  compen- 
sating pleasure  was  the  sight  of  the  beautiful  mountain-ash 
trees  in  full  berry,  which,  alternately  with  cherry-trees,  bor- 
der the  road  for  a  considerable  distance.  At  last  we  rested 
from  our  broiling  walk  on  the  borders  of  a  glorious  pine-wood, 
so  extensive  that  the  trees  in  the  distance  form  a  complete 
wall  with  their  trunks,  and  so  give  one  a  twilight  very  wel- 
come on  a  summer's  noon.  Under  these  pines  you  tread  on  a. 


190  THREE  MONTHS  IN  WEIMAR. 

carpet  of  the  softest  moss,  so  that  you  hear  no  sound  of  a  foot- 
step, and  all  is  as  solemn  and  still  as  in  the  crypt  of  a  cathe- 
dral. Presently  we  passed  out  of  the  pine-wood  into  one  of 
limes,  beeches,  and  other  trees  of  transparent  and  light  foliage, 
and  from  this  again  we  emerged  into  the  open  space  of  the 
Ettersburg  Park  in  front  of  the  Schloss,  which  is  finely  placed 
on  an  eminence  commanding  a  magnificent  view  of  the  far- 
reaching  woods.  Prince  Puckler  Muskau  has  been  of  service 
here  by  recommending  openings  to  be  made  in  the  woods,  in 
the  taste  of  the  English  parks.  The  Schloss,  which  is  a  fa- 
vorite residence  of  the  Grand  Duke,  is  a  house  of  very  moder- 
ate size,  and  no  pretension  of  any  kind.  Its  stuccoed  walls, 
and  doors  long  unacquainted  with  fresh  paint,  would  look  dis- 
tressingly shabby  to  the  owner  of  a  villa  at  Richmond  or 
Twickenham;  but  much  beauty  is  procured  here  at  slight 
expense,  by  the  tasteful  disposition  of  creepers  on  the  ba- 
lustrades, and  pretty  vases  full  of  plants  ranged  along  the 
steps,  or  suspended  in  the  little  piazza  beneath  them.  A  walk 
through  a  beech-wood  took  us  to  the  Mooshlitte,  in  front  of 
which  stands  the  famous  beech  from  whence  Goethe  denounced 
Jacobi's  "  Woldemar."  The  bark  is  covered  with  initials  cut 
by  him  and  his  friends. 

People  who  only  allow  themselves  to  be  idle  under  the  pre- 
text of  hydropathizing,  may  find  all  the  apparatus  necessary  to 
satisfy  their  conscience  at  Bercka,  a  village  seated  in  a  lovely 
valley  about  six  miles  from  Weimar.  Now  and  then  a  Wei- 
mar family  takes  lodgings  here  for  the  summer,  retiring  from 
the  quiet  of  the  capital  to  the  deeper  quiet  of  Bercka ;  but 
generally  the  place  seems  not  much  frequented.  It  would  be 
difficult  to  imagine  a  more  peace-inspiring  scene  than  this  lit- 
tle valley.  The  hanging  woods — the  soft  coloring  and  grace- 
ful outline  of  the  uplands — the  village,  with  its  roofs  and  spire 
of  a  reddish-violet  hue,  muffled  in  luxuriant  trees — the  white 
Kurhaus  glittering  on  a  grassy  slope-^-the  avenue  of  poplars 
contrasting  its  pretty  primness  with  the  wild  bushy  outline  of 
the  wood-covered  hill,  which  rises  abruptly  from  the  smooth, 
green  meadows — the  clear  winding  stream,  now  sparkling  in 
the  sun,  now  hiding  itself  under  soft  gray  willows, — all  this 
makes  an  enchanting  picture.  The  walk  to  Bercka  and  back 


THREE  MONTHS  IN  WEIMAR.  191 

was  a  favorite  expedition  with  us  and  a  few  Weimar  friends, 
for  the  road  thither  is  a  pleasant  one,  leading  at  first  through 
open  cultivated  fields,  dotted  here  and  there  with  villages, 
and  then  through  wooded  hills — the  outskirts  of  the  Thurin- 
gian  Forest.  We  used  not  to  despise  the  fine  plums  which 
hung  in  tempting  abundance  by  the  road-side ;  but  we  after- 
ward found  that  we  had  been  deceived  in  supposing  ourselves 
free  to  pluck  them,  as  if  it  were  the  golden  age,  and  that  we 
were  liable  to  a  penalty  of  ten  groschen  for  our  depredations. 
But  I  must  not  allow  myself  to  be  exhaustive  on  pleasures 
which  seem  monotonous  when  told,  though  in  enjoying  them 
one  is  as  far  from  wishing  them  to  be  more  various  as  from 
wishing  for  any  change  in  the  sweet  sameness  of  successive 
summer  days.  I  will  only  advise  the  reader  who  has  yet  to 
make  excursions  in  Thuringia  to  visit  Jena,  less  for  its  tradi- 
tions than  for  its  fine  scenery,  which  makes  it,  as  Goethe 
says,  a  delicious  place,  in  spite  of  its  dull,  ugly  streets ;  and 
exhort  him,  above  all,  to  brave  the  discomforts  of  a  Postwagen 
for  the  sake  of  getting  to  Ilmenau.  Here  he  will  find  the 
grandest  pine-clad  hills,  with  endless  walks  under  their  sol- 
emn shades ;  beech-woods  where  every  tree  is  a  picture ;  an 
air  that  he  will  breathe  with  as  conscious  a  pleasure  as  if  he 
were  taking  iced  water  on  a  hot  day;  baths  ad  libitum,  with 
a  douche  lofty  and  tremendous  enough  to  invigorate  the  giant 
Cormoran;  and,  more  than  all,  one  of  the  most  interesting 
relics  of  Goethe,  who  had  a  great  love  for  Ilmenau.  This  is 
the  small  wooden  house,  on  the  height  called  the  Kickelhahn, 
where  he  often  lived  in  his  long  retirements  here,  and  where 
you  may  see  written  by  his  own  hand,  near  the  window-frame, 
those  wonderful  lines — perhaps  the  finest  expression  yet  given 
to  the  sense  of  resignation  inspired  by  the  sublime  calm  of 
Nature : — 

"Ueber  alien  Gipfeln 
1st  Ruh, 

In  alien  Wipfeln 
Spiirest  du 
Kaum  einen  Hauch ; 
Die  Vogelein  schweigen  im  Walde. 
Warte  nur,  balde 
fullest  du  auch." 


ADDRESS   TO  WORKING   MEN,  BY  FELIX  HOLT. 

FELLOW- WORKMEN, — I  am  not  going  to  take  up  your  time 
by  complimenting  you.  It  has  been  the  fashion  to  compli- 
ment kings  and  other  authorities  when  they  have  come  into 
power,  and  to  tell  them  that,  under  their  wise  and  beneficent 
rule,  happiness  would  certainly  overflow  the  land.  But  the 
end  has  not  always  corresponded  to  that  beginning.  If  it 
were  true  that  we  who  work  for  wages  had  more  of  the  wis- 
dom and  virtue  necessary  to  the  right  use  of  power  than  has 
been  shown  by  the  aristocratic  and  mercantile  classes,  we 
should  not  glory  much  in  that  fact,  or  consider  that  it  carried 
with  it  any  near  approach  to  infallibility. 

In  my  opinion,  there  has  been  too  much  complimenting  of 
that  sort;  and  whenever  a  speaker,  whether  he  is  one  of  our- 
selves or  not,  wastes  our  time  in  boasting  or  flattery,  I  say, 
let  us  hiss  him.  If  we  have  the  beginning  of  wisdom,  which 
is,  to  know  a  little  truth  about  ourselves,  we  know  that  as  a 
body  we  are  neither  very  wise  nor  very  virtuous.  And  to 
prove  this,  I  will  not  point  specially  to  our  own  habits  and 
doings,  but  to  the  general  state  of  the  country.  Any  nation 
that  had  within  it  a  majority  of  men— and  we  are  the  major- 
ity— possessed  of  much  wisdom  and  virtue,  would  not  toler- 
ate the  bad  practices,  the  commercial  lying  and  swindling,  the 
poisonous  adulteration  of  goods,  the  retail  cheating,  and  the- 
political  bribery,  which  are  carried  on  boldly  in  the  midst  of 
us.  A  majority  has  the  power  of  creating  a  public  opinion.. 
We  could  groan  and  hiss  before  we  had  the  franchise :  if  we 
had  groaned  and  hissed  in  the  right  place,  if  we  had  discerned 
better  between  good  and  evil,  if  the  multitude  of  us  artisans, 
and  factory  hands,  and  miners,  and  laborers  of  all  sorts,  had 
been  skilful,  faithful,  well-judging,  industrious,  sober — and  I 
don't  see  how  there  can  be  wisdom  and  virtue  anywhere  with- 
out those  qualities — we  should  have  made  an  audience  that* 


ADDRESS  TO  WORKING  MEN.  193 

would  have  shamed  the  other  classes  out  of  their  share  in 
the  national  vices.  We  should  have  had  better  members  of 
Parliament,  better  religious  teachers,  honester  tradesmen, 
fewer  foolish  demagogues,  less  impudence  in  infamous  and 
brutal  men ;  and  we  should  not  have  had  among  us  the  abomi- 
nation of  men  calling  themselves  religious  while  living  in 
splendor  on  ill-gotten  gains.  I  say,  it  is  not  possible  for  any 
society  in  which  there  is  a  very  large  body  of  wise  and  virtu- 
ous men  to  be  as  vicious  as  our  society  is — to  have  as  low  a 
standard  of  right  and  wrong,  to  have  so  much  belief  in  false- 
hood, or  to  have  so  degrading,  barbarous  a  notion  of  what 
pleasure  is,  or  of  what  justly  raises  a  man  above  his  fellows. 
Therefore,  let  us  have  done  with  this  nonsense  about  our  be- 
ing much  better  than  the  rest  of  our  countrymen,  or  the  pre- 
tence that  that  was  a  reason  why  we  ought  to  have  such  an 
extension  of  the  franchise  as  has  been  given  to  us.  The  rea- 
son for  our  having  the  franchise,  as  I  want  presently  to  show, 
lies  somewhere  else  than  in  our  personal  good  qualities,  and 
does  not  in  the  least  lie  in  any  high  betting  chance  that  a  dele- 
gate is  a  better  man  than  a  duke,  or  that  a  Sheffield  grinder 
is  a  better  man  than  any  one  of  the  firm  he  works  for. 

However,  we  have  got  our  franchise  now.  We  have  been 
sarcastically  called  in  the  House  of  Commons  the  future  mas- 
ters of  the  country ;  and  if  that  sarcasm  contains  any  truth, 
it  seems  to  me  that  the  first  thing  we  had  better  think  of  is, 
our  heavy  responsibility ;  that  is  to  say,  the  terrible  risk  we 
run  of  working  mischief  and  missing  good,  as  others  have 
done  before  us.  Suppose  certain  men,  discontented  with  the 
irrigation  of  a  country  which  depended  for  all  its  prosperity 
on  the  right  direction  being  given  to  the  waters  of  a  great 
river,  had  got  the  management  of  the  irrigation  before  they 
were  quite  sure  how  exactly  it  could  be  altered  for  the  bet- 
ter, or  whether  they  could  command  the  necessary  agency 
for  such  an  alteration.  Those  men  would  have  a  difficult 
and  dangerous  business  on  their  hands ;  and  the  more  sense, 
feeling,  and  knowledge  they  had,  the  more  they  would  be 
likely  to  tremble  rather  than  to  triumph.  Our  situation  is 
not  altogether  unlike  theirs.  For  general  prosperity  and 
well-being  is  a  vast  crop,  that  like  the  corn  in  Egypt  can 
13 


'194  ADDRESS  TO  WORKING  MEN, 

be  come  at,  not  at  all  by  hurried  snatching,  but  only  by  a 
well-judged  patient  process ;  and  whether  our  political  power 
will  be  any  good  to  us  now  we  have  got  it,  must  depend 
entirely  on  the  means  and  materials — the  knowledge,  abil- 
ity, and  honesty — we  have  at  command.  These  three  things 
are  the  only  conditions  on  which  we  can  get  any  lasting  bene- 
fit, as  every  clever  workman  among  us  knows:  he  knows 
that  for  an  article  to  be  worth  much  there  must  be  a  good 
invention  or  plan  to  go  upon,  there  must  be  well-prepared 
material,  and  there  must  be  skilful  and  honest  work  in  carry- 
ing out  the  plan.  And  by  this  test  we  may  try  those  who 
want  to  be  our  leaders.  Have  they  anything  to  offer  us  be- 
sides indignant  talk?  When  they  tell  us  we  ought  to  have 
this,  that,  or  the  other  thing,  can  they  explain  to  us  any  rea- 
sonable, fair,  safe  way  of  getting  it?  Can  they  argue  in  favor 
of  a  particular  change  by  showing  us  pretty  closely  how  the 
change  is  likely  to  work?  I  don't  want  to  decry  a  just  indig- 
nation ;  on  the  contrary,  I  should  like  it  to  be  more  thorough 
and  general.  A  wise  man,  more  than  two  thousand  years  ago, 
when  he  was  asked  what  would  most  tend  to  lessen  injustice 
in  the  world,  said,  "  That  every  bystander  should  feel  as  indig- 
nant at  a  wrong  as  if  he  himself  were  the  sufferer."  Let  us 
cherish  such  indignation.  But  the  long-growing  evils  of  a 
great  nation  are  a  tangled  business,  asking  for  a  good  deal 
more  than  indignation  in  order  to  be  got  rid  of.  Indignation 
is  a  fine  war-horse,  but  the  war-horse  must  be  ridden  by  a 
man :  it  must  be  ridden  by  rationality,  skill,  courage,  armed 
with  the  right  weapons,  and  taking  definite  aim. 

We  have  reason  to  be  discontented  with  many  things,  and, 
looking  back  either  through  the  history  of  England  to  much 
earlier  generations  or  to  the  legislation  and  administration  of 
later  times,  we  are  justified  in  saying  that  many  of  the  evils 
under  which  our  country  now  suffers  are  the  consequences 
of  folly,  ignorance,  neglect,  or  self-seeking  in  those  who,  at 
different  times,  have  wielded  the  powers  of  rank,  office,  and 
money.  But  the  more  bitterly  we  feel  this,  the  more  loudly 
we  utter" it,  the  stronger  is  the  obligation  we  lay  on  ourselves 
to  beware  lest  we  also,  by  a  too  hasty  wrestling  of  measures 
which  seem  to  promise  an  immediate  partial  relief,  make  a 


BY  FELIX  HOLT. 

worse  time  of  it  for  our  own  generation,  and  leave  a  bad  in- 
heritance to  our  children.  The  deepest  curse  of  wrong-doing, 
whether  of  the  foolish  or  wicked  sort,  is  that  its  effects  are 
difficult  to  be  undone.  I  suppose  there  is  hardly  anything 
more, to  be  shuddered  at  than  that  part  of  the  history  of  dis- 
ease which  shows  how,  when  a  man  injures  his  constitution  by 
a  life  of-  vicious  excess,  his  children  and  grandchildren  inherit 
diseased  bodies  and  minds,  and  how  the  effects  of  that  un- 
happy inheritance  continue  to  spread  beyond  our  calculation. 
This  is  only  one  example  of  the  law  by  which  human  lives 
are  linked  together:  another  example  of  what  we  complain 
of  when  we  point  to  our  pauperism,  to  the  brutal  ignorance  of 
multitudes  among  our  fellow-countrymen,  to  the  weight  of  tax- 
ation laid  on  us  by  blamable  wars,  to  the  wasteful  channels 
made  for  the  public  money,  to  the  expense  and  trouble  of 
getting  justice,  and  call  these  the  effects  of  bad  rule.  This 
is  the  law  that  we  all  bear  the  yoke  of,  the  law  of  no  man's 
making,  and  which  no  man  can  undo.'  Everybody  now  sees 
an  example  of  it  in  the  case  of  Ireland.  We  who  are  living 
now  are  sufferers  by  the  wrong-doing  of  those  who  lived  be- 
fore us;  we  are  sufferers  by  each  other's  wrong-doing ;  and 
the  children  who  come  after  us  are  and  will  be  sufferers  from 
the  same  causes.  Will  any  man  say  he  doesn't  care  for  that 
law — it  is  nothing  to  him — what  he  wants  is  to  better  him- 
self? With  what  face  then  will  he  complain  of  any  injury? 
If  he  says  that  in  politics  or  in  any  sort  of  social  action  he 
will  not  care  to  know  what  are  likely  to  be  the  consequences 
to  others  besides  himself,  he  is  defending  the  very  worst  do- 
ings that  have  brought  about  his  discontent.  He  might  as 
well  say  that  there  is  no  better  rule  needful  for  men  than  that 
each  should  tug  and  rive  for  what  will  please  him,  without  car- 
ing how  that  tugging  will  act  on  the  fine  widespread  network 
of  society  in  which  he  is  fast  meshed.  If  any  man  taught 
that  as  a  doctrine,  we  should  know  him  for  a  fool.  But 
there  are  men  who  act  upon  it :  every  scoundrel,  for  example, 
whether  he  is  a  rich  religious  scoundrel  who  lies  and  cheats 
on  a  large  scale,  and  will  perhaps  come  and  ask  you  to  send 
him  to  Parliament,  or  a  poor  pocket-picking  scoundrel,  who 
will  steal  your  loose  pence  while  you  are  listening  round  the 


196  ADDRESS  TO   WORKING  MEN, 

platform.  None  of  us  are  so  ignorant  as  not  to  know  that  a 
society,  a  nation,  is  held  together  by  just  the  opposite  doc- 
trine and  action — by  the  dependence  of  men  on  each  other  and 
the  sense  they  have  of  a  common  interest  in  preventing  injury. 
And  we  working  men  are,  I  think,  of  all  classes  the  last  that 
can  afford  to  forget  this ;  for  if  we  did  we  should  be  much  like 
sailors  cutting  away  the  timbers  of  our  own  ship  to  warm 
our  grog  with.  For  what  else  is  the  meaning  of  our  Trades- 
unions?  What  else  is  the  meaning  of  every  flag  we  carry, 
every  procession  we  make,  every  crowd  we  collect  for  the  sake 
of  making  some  protest  on  behalf  of  our  body  as  receivers  of 
wages,  if  not  this :  that  it  is  our  interest  to  stand  by  each 
other,  and  that  this  being  the  common  interest,  no  one  of  us 
will  try  to  make  a  good  bargain  for  himself  without  consider- 
ing what  will  be  good  for  his  fellows?  And  every  member  of 
a  union  believes  that  the  wider  he  can  spread  his  union,  the 
stronger  and  surer  will  be  the  effect  of  it.  So  I  think  I  shall 
be  borne  out  in  saying  that  a  working  man  who  can  put  two 
and  two  together,  or  take  three  from  four  and  see  what  will  be 
the  remainder,  can  understand  that  a  society,  to  be  well  off, 
must  be  made  up  chiefly  of  men  who  consider  the  general  good 
as  well  as  their  own. 

Well,  but  taking  the  world  as  it  is — and  this  is  one  way  we 
must  take  it  when  we  want  to  find  out  how  it  can  be  -improved 
— no  society  is  made  up  of  a  single  class :  society  stands  before 
us  like  that  wonderful  piece  of  life,  the  human  body,  with  all 
its  various  parts  depending  on  one  another,  and  with  a  terrible 
liability  to  get  wrong  because  of  that  delicate  dependence. 
We  all  know  how  many  diseases  the  human  body  is  apt.  to 
suffer  from,  and  how  difficult  it  is  even  for  the  doctors  to  find 
out  exactly  where  the  seat  or  beginning  of  the  "disorder  is. 
That  is  because  the  body  is  made  up  of  so  many  various  parts, 
all  related  to  each  other,  or  likely  all  to  feel  the  effect  if  any 
one  of  them  goes  wrong.  It  is  somewhat  the  same  with  our 
old  nations  or  societies.  No  society  ever  stood  long  in  tne 
world  without  getting  to  be  composed  of  different  classes. 
Now,  it  is  all  pretence  to  say  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as 
Class  Interest.  It  is  clear  that  if  any  particular  number  of 
men  get  a  particular  benefit  from  any  existing  institution, 


BY  FELIX  HOLf.  197 

they  are  likely  to  band  together,  in  order  to  keep  up  that  ben- 
efit and  increase  it,  until  it  is  perceived  to  be  unfair  and  inju- 
rious to  another  large  number,  who  get  knowledge  and  strength 
enough  to  set  up  a  resistance.  And  this,  again,  has  been  part 
of  the  history  of  every  great  society  since  history  began.  But 
the  simple  reason  for  this  being,  that  any  large  body  of  men 
is  likely  to  have  more  of  stupidity,  narrowness,  and  greed  than 
of  far-sightedness  and  generosity,  it  is  plain  that  the  number 
who  resist  unfairness  and  injury  are  in  danger  of  becoming 
injurious  in  their  turn.  And  in  this  way  a  justifiable  resist- 
ance has  become  a  damaging  convulsion,  making  everything 
worse  instead  of  better.  This  has  been  seen  so  often  that  we 
ought  to  profit  a  little  by  the  experience.  So  long  as  there  is 
selfishness  in  men;  so  long  as  they  have  not  found  out  for 
themselves  institutions  which  express  and  carry  into  practice 
the  truth,  that  the  highest  interest  of  mankind  must  at  last  be 
a  common  and  not  a  divided  interest ;  so  long  as  the  gradual 
operation  of  steady  causes  has  not  made  that  truth  a  part  of 
every  man's  knowledge  and  feeling,  just  as  we  now  not  only 
know  that  it  is  good  for  our  health  to  be  cleanly,  but  feel  that 
cleanliness  is  only  another  word  for  comfort,  which  is  the 
under-side  or  lining  of  all  pleasure;  so  long,  I  say,  as  men 
wink  at  their  own  knowingness,  or  hold  their  heads  high,  be- 
cause they  have  got  an  advantage  over  their  fellows ;  so  long 
Class  Interest  will  be  in  danger  of  making  itself  felt  injuri- 
ously. No  set  of  men  will  get  any  sort  of  power  without 
being  in  danger  of  wanting  more  than  their  right  share.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  it  is  just  as  certain  that  no  set  of  men  will 
get  angry  at  having  less  than  their  right  share,  and  set  up  a 
claim  on  that  ground,  without  falling  into  just  the  same  dan- 
ger of  exacting  too  much,  and  exacting  it  in  wrong  ways.  It' s 
human  nature  we  have  got  to  work  wibh  all  round,  and  noth- 
ing else.  That  seems  like  saying  something  very  common- 
place— nay,  obvious ;  as  if  one  should  say  that  where  there  are 
hands  there  are  mouths.  Yet,  to  hear  a  good  deal  of  the  speech- 
ifying and  to  see  a  good  deal  of  the  action  that  goes  forward, 
one  might  suppose  it  was  forgotten. 

But  I  come  back  to  this :  that,  in  our  old  society,  there  are 
old  institutions,  and  among  them  the  various  distinctions  and 


198  ADDRESS  TO   WORKING  MEN, 

inherited  advantages  of  classes,  which  have  shaped  themselves 
along  with  all  the  wonderful  slow-growing  system  of  things 
made  up  of  our  laws,  our  commerce,  and  our  stores  of  all  sorts, 
whether  in  material  objects,  such  as  buildings  and  machinery,  or 
in  knowledge,  such  as  scientific  thought  and  professional  skill. 
Just  as  in  that  case  I  spoke  of  before,  the  irrigation  of  a  coun- 
try, which  must  absolutely  have  its  water  distributed  or  it  will 
bear  no  crop ;  there  are  the  old  channels,  the  old  banks,  and 
the  old  pumps,  which  must  be  used  as  they  are  until  new  and 
better  have  been  prepared,  or  the  structure  of  the  old  has  been 
gradually  altered.  But  it  would  be  fool's  work  to  batter  down 
a  pump  only  because  a  better  might  be  made,  when  you  had 
no  machinery  ready  for  a  new  one :  it  would  be  wicked  work, 
if  villages  lost  their  crops  by  it.  Now  the  only  safe  way  by 
which  society  can  be  steadily  improved  and  our  worst  evils 
reduced,  is  not  by  any  attempt  to  do  away  directly  with  the 
actually  existing  class  distinctions  and  advantages,  as  if  every- 
body could  have  the  same  sort  of  work,  or  lead  the  same  sort 
of  life  (which  none  of  my  hearers  are  stupid  enough  to  sup- 
pose), but  by  the  turning  of  Class  Interests  into  Class  Func- 
tions or  duties.  What  I  mean  is,  that  each  class  should  be 
urged  by  the  surrounding  conditions  to  perform  its  particular 
work  under  the  strong  pressure  of  responsibility  to  the  nation 
at  large ;  that  our  public  affairs  should  be  got  into  a  state  in 
which  there  should  be  no  impunity  for  foolish  or  faithless  con- 
duct. In  this  way,  the  public  judgment  would  sift  out  inca- 
pability and  dishonesty  from  posts  of  high  charge,  and  even 
personal  ambition  would  necessarily  become  of  a  worthier  sort, 
since  the  desires  of  the  most  selfish  men  must  be  a  good  deal 
shaped  by  the  opinions  of  those  around  them;  and  for  one 
person  to  put  on  a  cap  and  bells,  or  to  go  about  dishonest  or 
paltry  ways  of  getting  rich  that  he  may  spend  a  vast  sum  of 
money  in  having  more  finery  than  his  neighbors,  ho  must  be 
pretty  sure  of  a  crowd  who  will  applaud  him.  Now  changes 
can  only  be  good  in  proportion  as  they  help  to  bring  about 
this  sort  of  result :  in  proportion  as  they  put  knowledge  in  the 
place  of  ignorance,  and  fellow-feeling  in  the  place  of  selfish- 
ness. In  the  course  of  that  substitution  class  distinctions  must 
inevitably  change  their  character,  and  represent  the  varying 


BY  FELIX  HOLT. 

Duties  of  men,  not  their  varying  Interests.  But  this  end  will 
not  come  by  impatience.  "  Day  will  not  break  the  sooner  be- 
cause we  get  up  before  the  twilight. "  Still  less  will  it  come 
by  mere  undoing,  or  change  merely  as  change.  And  more- 
over, if  we  believed  that  it  would  be  unconditionally  hastened 
by  our  getting  the  franchise,  we  should  be  what  I  call  super- 
stitious men,  believing  in  magic,  or  the  production  of  a  result 
by  hocus-pocus.  Our  getting  the  franchise  will  greatly  hasten 
that  good  end  in  proportion  only  as  every  one  of  us  has  the 
knowledge,  the  foresight,  the  conscience,  that  will  make  him 
well- judging  and  scrupulous  in  the  use  of  it.  The  nature  of 
things  in  this  world  has  been  determined  for  us  beforehand, 
and  in  such  a  way  that  no  ship  can  be  expected  to  sail  well  on 
a  difficult  voyage,  and  reach  the  right  port,  unless  it  is  well 
manned:  the  nature  of  the  winds  and  the  waves,  of  the  tim- 
bers, the  sails,  and  the  cordage,  will  not  accommodate  itself  to 
drunken,  mutinous  sailors. 

You  will  not  suspect  me  of  wanting  to  preach  any  cant  to 
you,  or  of  joining  in  the  pretence  that  everything  is  in  a  fine 
way,  and  need  not  be  made  better.  What  I  am  striving  to 
keep  in  our  minds  is  the  care,'  the  precaution,  with  which  we 
should  go  about  making  things  better,  so  that  the  public  order 
may  not  be  destroyed,  so  that  no  fatal  shock  may  be  given  to 
this  society  of  ours,  this  living  body  in  which  our  lives  are 
bound  up.  After  the  Reform  Bill  of  1832  I  was  in  an  elec- 
tion riot,  which  showed  me  clearly,  on  a  small  scale,  what 
public  disorder  must  always  be;  and  I  have  never  forgotten 
that  the  riot  was  brought  about  chiefly  by  the  agency  of  dis- 
honest men  who  professed  to  be  on  the  people's  side.  Now, 
the  danger  hanging  over  change  is  great,  just  in  proportion  as 
it  tends  to  produce  such  disorder  by  giving  any  large  number 
of  ignorant  men,  whose  notions  of  what  is  good  are  of  a  low 
and  brutal  sort,  the  belief  that  they  have  got  power  into  their 
hands,  and  may  do  pretty  much  as  they  like.  If  any  one  can 
look  round  us  and  say  that  he  sees  no  signs  of  any  such  dan- 
ger now,  and  that  our  national  condition  is  running  along  like 
a  clear  broadening  stream,  safe  not  to  get  choked  with  mud, 
I  call  him  a  cheerful  man :  perhaps  he  does  his  own  garden- 
ing, and  seldom  takes  exercise  far  away  from  home.  To  ua 


200  ADDRESS  TO   WORKING  MEN, 

who  have  no  gardens,  and  often  walk  abroad,  it  is  plain  that 
we  can  never  get  into  a  bit  of  a  crowd  but  we  must  rub  clothes 
with  a  set  of  Roughs,  who  have  the  worst  vices  of  the  worst 
rich — who  are  gamblers,  sots,  libertines,  knaves,  or  else  mere 
sensual  simpletons  and  victims.  They  are  the  ugly  crop  that 
has  sprung  up  while  the  stewards  have  been  sleeping;  they 
are  the  multiplying  brood  begotten  by  parents  who  have  been 
left  without  all  teaching  save  that  of  a  too  craving  body,  with- 
out all  well-being  save  the  fading  delusions  of  drugged  beer 
and  gin.  They  are  the  hideous  margin  of  society,  at  one  edge 
drawing  toward  it  the  undesigning  ignorant  poor,  at  the  other 
darkening  imperceptibly  into  the  lowest  criminal  class.  Here 
is  one  of  the  evils  which  cannot  be  got  rid  of  quickly,  and 
against  which  any  of  us  who  have  got  sense,  decency,  and  in- 
struction have  need  to  watch.  That  these  degraded  fellow- 
men  could  really  get  the  mastery  in  a  persistent  disobedience 
to  the  laws  and  in  a  struggle  to  subvert  order,  I  do  not  be- 
lieve ;  but  wretched  calamities  would  come  from  the  very  be- 
ginning of  such  a  struggle,  and  the  continuance  of  it  would 
be  a  civil  war,  in  which  the  inspiration  on  both  sides  might 
soon  cease  to  be  even  a  false  notion  of  good,  and  might  become 
the  direct  savage  impulse  of  ferocity.  We  have  all  to  see  U) 
it  that  we  do  not  help  to  rouse  what  I  may  call  the  savage 
beast  in  the  breasts  of  our  generation — that  we  do  not  help  to 
poison  the  nation' s  blood,  and  make  richer  provision  for  besti 
ality  to  come.  We  know  well  enough  that  oppressors  have 
sinned  in  this  way — that  oppression  has  notoriously  made  men 
mad;  and  we  are  determined  to  resist  oppression.  But  let  us, 
if  possible,  show  that  we  can  keep  sane  in  our  resistance,  and 
shape  our  means  more  and  more. reasonably  toward  the  least 
harmful,  and  therefore  the  speediest,  attainment  of  our  end. 
Let  us,  I  say,  show  that  our  spirits  are  too  strong  to  be  driven 
mad,  but  can  keep  that  sober  determination  which  alone  gives 
mastery  over  the  adaptation  of  means.  And  a  first  guaranty 
of  this  sanity  will  be  to  act  as  if  we  understood  that  the  fun- 
damental duty  of  a  Government  is  to  preserve  order,  to  enforce 
obedience  of  the  laws.  It  has  been  held  hitherto  that  a  man 
can  be  depended  on  as  a  guardian  of  order  only  when  he  has 
much  money  and  comfort  to  lose.  But  a  better  state  of  things 


BY  FELIX  HOLT.  201 

would  be,  that  men  who  had  little  money  and  not  much  com- 
fort should  still  be  guardians  of  order,  because  they  had  sense 
to  see  that  disorder  would  do  no  good,  and  had  a  heart  of  jus- 
tice, pity,  and  fortitude,  to  keep  them  from  making  more  mis- 
ery only  because  they  felt  some  misery  themselves.  There  are 
thousands  of  artisans  who  have  already  shown  this  fine  spirit, 
and  have  endured  much  with  patient  heroism.  If  such  a  spirit 
spread,  and  penetrated  us  all,  we  should  soon  become  the  mas- 
ters of  the  country  in  the  best  sense  and  to  the  best  ends. 
For,  the  public  order  being  preserved,  there  can  be  no  govern- 
ment in  future  that  will  not  be  determined  by  our  insistence 
on  our  fair  and  practicable  demands.  It  is  only  by  disorder 
that  our  demands  will  be  choked,  that  we  shall  find  ourselves 
lost  amongst  a  brutal  rabble,  with  all  the  intelligence  of  the 
country  opposed  to  us,  and  see  government  in  the  shape  of 
guns  that  will  sweep  us  down  in  the  ignoble  martyrdom  of 
fools. 

It  has  been  a  too  common  notion  that  to  insist  much  on  the 
preservation  of  order  is  the  part  of  a  selfish  aristocracy  and  a 
selfish  commercial  class,  because  among  these,  in  the  nature 
of  things,  have  been  found  the  opponents  of  change.  I  am  a 
Radical ;  and,  what  is  more,  I  am  not  a  Eadical  with  a  title 
or  a  French  cook  or  even  an  entrance  into  fine  society.  I 
expect  great  changes,  and  I  desire  them.  But  I  don't  expect 
them  to  come  in  a  hurry,  by  mere  inconsiderate  sweeping.  A 
Hercules  with  a  big  besom  is  a  fine  thing  for  a  filthy  stable, 
but  not  for  weeding  a  seed-bed,  where  his  besom  would  soon 
make  a  barren  floor. 

That  is  old-fashioned  talk,  some  one  may  say.  We  know 
all  that. 

Yes,  when  things  are  put  in  an  extreme  way,  most  people 
think  they  know  them ;  but,  after  all,  they  are  comparatively 
few  who  see  the  small  degrees  by  which  those  extremes  are 
arrived  at,  or  have  the  resolution  and  self-control  to  resist  the 
little  impulses  by  which  they  creep  on  surely  toward  a  fatal 
end.  Does  anybody  set  out  meaning  to  ruin  himself,  or  to 
drink  himself  to  death,  or  to  waste  his  life  so  that  he  becomes 
a  despicable  old  man,  a  superannuated  nuisance,  like  a  fly  in 
winter?  Yet  there  are  plenty,  of  whose  lot  this  is  the  piti- 


202  ADDRESS  TO  WORKING  MEN, 

able  story.  Well  now,  supposing  us  all  to  have  the  best  in- 
tentions, we  working  men,  as  a  body,  run  some  risk  of  bring- 
ing evil  on  the  nation  in  that  unconscious  manner — half -hur- 
rying, half-pushed  in  a  jostling  march  toward  an  end  we  are 
not  thinking  of.  For  just  as  there  are  many  things  which  we 
know  better  and  feel  much  more  strongly  than  the  richer, 
softer-handed  classes  can  know  or  feel  them;  so  there  are 
many  things — many  precious  benefits — which  we,  by  the  very 
fact  of  our  privations,  our  lack  of  leisure  and  instruction,  are 
not  so  likely  to  be  aware  of  and  take  into  our  account.  Those 
precious  benefits  form  a  chief  part  of  what  I  may  call  the  com- 
mon estate  of  society :  a  wealth  over  and  above  buildings,  ma- 
chinery, produce,  shipping,  and  so  on,  though  closely  con- 
nected with  these ;  a  wealth  of  a  more  delicate  kind,  that  we 
may  more  unconsciously  bring  into  danger,  doing  harm  and 
not  knowing  that  we  do  it.  I  mean  that  treasure  of  knowledge, 
science,  poetry,  refinement  of  thought,  feeling,  and  manners, 
great  memories,  and  the  interpretation  of  great  records,  which 
is  carried  on  from  the  minds  of  one  generation  to  the  minds 
of  another.  This  is  something  distinct  from  the  indulgences 
of  luxury  and  the  pursuit  of  vain  finery ;  and  one  of  the  hard- 
ships in  the  lot  of  working  men  is  that  they  have  been  for  the 
most  part  shut  out  from  sharing  in  this  treasure.  It  can  make 
a  man's  life  very  great,  very  full  of  delight,  though  he  has  no 
smart  furniture  and  no  horses :  it  also  yields  a  great  deal  of 
discovery  that  corrects  error,  and  of  invention  that  lessens 
bodily  pain,  and  must  at  last  make  life  easier  for  all. 

Now  the  security  of  this  treasure  demands,  not  only  the 
preservation  of  order,  but  a  certain  patience  on  our  part  with 
many  institutions  and  facts  of  various  kinds,  especially  touch- 
ing the  accumulation  of  wealth,  which,  from  the  light  we  stand 
in,  we  are  more  likely  to  discern  the  evil  than  the  good  of.  It 
is  constantly  the  task  of  practical  wisdom  not  to  say,  "  This 
is  good,  and  I  will  have  it,"  but  to  say,  "This  is  the  less  of 
two  unavoidable  evils,  and  I  will  bear  it."  And  this  treasure 
of  knowledge,  which  consists  in  the  fine  activity,  the  exalted 
vision  of  many  minds,  is  bound  up  at  present  with  conditions 
which  have  much  evil  in  them.  Just  as  in  the  case  of  mate- 
rial wealth  and  its  distribution  we  are  obliged  to  take  the  self- 


BY  FELIX  HOLT.  203 

ishness  and  weakness  of  human  nature  into  account,  and,  how- 
ever we  insist  that  men  might  act  better,  are  forced,  unless 
we  are  fanatical  simpletons,  to  consider  how  they  are  likely  to 
act;  so  in  this  matter  of  the  wealth  that  is  carried  in  men's 
minds,  we  have  to  reflect  that  the  too  absolute  predominance 
of  a  class  whose  wants  have  been  of  a  common  sort,  who  are 
chiefly  struggling  to  get  better  and  more  food,  clothing,  shel- 
ter, and  bodily  recreation,  may  lead  to  hasty  measures  for  the 
sake  of  having  things  more  fairly  shared,  which,  even  if  they 
did  not  fail  of  their  object,  would  at  last  debase  the  life  of  the 
nation.  Do  anything  which  will  throw  the  classes  who  hold 
the  treasures  of  knowledge — nay,  I  may  say,  the  treasure  of 
refined  needs — into  the  background,  cause  them  to  withdraw 
from  public  affairs,  stop  too  suddenly  any  of  the  sources  by 
which  their  leisure  and  ease  are  furnished,  rob  them  of  the 
chances  by  which  they  may  be  influential  and  pre-eminent, 
and  you  do  something  as  short-sighted  as  the  acts  of  France 
and  Spain  when  in  jealousy  and  wrath,  not  altogether  unpro- 
voked, they  drove  from  among  them  races  and  classes  that 
held  the  traditions  of  handicraft  and  agriculture.  You  injure 
your  own  inheritance  and  the  inheritance  of  your  children. 
You  may  truly  say  that  this  which  I  call  the  common  estate 
of  society  has  been  anything  but  common  to  you ;  but  the  same 
may  be  said,  by  many  of  us,  of  the  sunlight  and  the  air,  of 
the  sky  and  the  fields,  of  parks  and  holiday  gamjes.  Neverthe- 
less, that  these  blessings  exist  makes  life  worthier  to  us,  and 
urges  us  the  more  to  energetic,  likely  means  of  getting  our 
share  in  them ;  and  I  say,  let  us  watch  carefully,  lest  we  do 
anything  to  lessen  this  treasure  which  is  held  in  the  minds  of 
men,  while  we  exert  ourselves  first  of  all,  and  to  the  very  ut- 
most, that  we  and  our  children  may  share  in  all  its  benefits. 
Yes ;  exert  ourselves  to  the  utmost,  to  break  the  yoke  of  igno- 
rance. If  we  demand  more  leisure,  more  ease  in  our  lives,  let 
us  show  that  we  don't  deserve  the  reproach  of  wanting  to 
shirk  that  industry  which,  in  some  form  or  other,  every  man, 
whether  rich  or  poor,  shall  feel  himself  as  much  bound  to  as 
he  is  bound  to  decency.  Let  us  show  that  we  want  to  have 
some  time  and  strength  left  to  us,  that  we  may  use  it,  not  for 
brutal  indulgence,  but  for  the  rational  exercise  of  the  faculties 


204  ADDRESS  TO  WORKING  MEN, 

which  make  us  men.  Without  this  no  political  measures  can 
benefit  us.  No  political  institution  will  alter  the  nature  of 
Ignorance,  or  hinder  it  from  producing  vice  and  misery.  Let 
Ignorance  start  how  it  will,  it  must  run  the  same  round  of 
low  appetites,  poverty,  slavery,  and  superstition.  Some  of  us 
know  this  well — nay,  I  will  say,  feel  it ;  for  knowledge  of  this 
kind  cuts  deep ;  and  to  us  it  is  one  of  the  most  painful  facts 
belonging  to  our  condition  that  there  are  numbers  of  our  fel- 
low-workmen who  are  so  far  from  feeling  in  the  same  way, 
that  they  never  use  the  imperfect  opportunities  already  offered 
them  for  giving  their  children  some  schooling,  but  turn  their 
little  ones  of  tender  age  into  bread-winners,  often  at  cruel 
tasks,  exposed  to  the  horrible  infection  of  childish  vice.  Of 
course,  the  causes  of  these  hideous  things  go  a  long  way  back. 
Parents'  misery  has  made  parents'  wickedness.  But  we,  who 
are  still  blessed  with  the  hearts  of  fathers  and  the  consciences 
of  men — we  who  have  some  knowledge  of  the  curse  entailed 
on  broods  of  creatures  in  human  shape,  whose  enfeebled  bodies 
and  dull  perverted  minds  are  mere  centres  of  uneasiness,  in 
whom  even  appetite  is  feeble,  and  joy  impossible, — I  say  we 
are  bound  to  use  all  the  means  at  our  command  to  help  put- 
ting a  stop  to  this  horror.  Here,  it  seems  to  me,  is  a  way  in 
which  we  may  use  extended  co-operation  among  us  to  the  most 
momentous  of  all  purposes,  and  make  conditions  of  enrolment 
that  would  strengthen  all  educational  measures.  It  is  true 
•enough  that  there  is  a  low  sense  of  parental  duties  in  the  na- 
tion at  large,  and  that  numbers  who  have  no  excuse  in  bodily 
hardship  seem  to  think  it  a  light  thing  to  beget  children, — to 
bring  human  beings,  with  all  their  tremendous  possibilities, 
into  this  difficult  world, — and  then  take  little  heed  how  they 
are  disciplined  and  furnished  for  the  perilous  journey  they 
are  sent  on  without  any  asking  of  their  own.  This  is  a  sin 
shared  in  more  or  less  by  all  classes ;  but  there  are  sins  which, 
like  taxation,  fall  the  heaviest  on  the  poorest,  and  none  have 
such  galling  reasons  as  we  working  men  to  try  and  rouse  to 
the  utmost  the  feeling  of  responsibility  in  fathers  and  mothers. 
We  have  been  urged  into  co-operation  by  the  pressure  of  com- 
mon demands.  In  war  men  need  each  other  more;  and  where 
a  given  point  has  to  be  defended,  fighters  inevitably  find  them' 


BY  FELIX  HOLT.  206 

selves  shoulder  to  shoulder.  So  fellowship  grows ;  so  grow 
the  rules  of  fellowship,  which  gradually  shape  themselves  to 
thoroughness  as  the  idea  of  a  common  good  becomes  more 
complete.  We  feel  a  right  to  say,  If  you  will  be  one  of  us, 
you  must  make  such  and  such  a  contribution,  you  must  re- 
nounce such  and  such  a  separate  advantage,  you  must  set 
your  face  against  such  and  such  an  infringement.  If  we  have 
any  false  ideas  about  our  common  good,  our  rules  will  be 
wrong,  and  we  shall  be  co-operating  to  damage  each  other. 
But  now,  here  is  a  part  of  our  good,  without  which  everything 
else  we  strive  for  will  be  worthless,  — I  mean  the  rescue  of  our 
children.  Let  us  demand  from  the  members  of  our  Unions 
that  they  fulfil  their  duty  as  parents  in  this  definite  matter, 
which  rules  can  reach.  Let  us  demand  that  they  send  their 
children  to  school,  so  as  not  to  go  on  recklessly  breeding  a 
moral  pestilence  among  us,  just  as  strictly  as  we  demand  that 
they  pay  their  contributions  to  a  common  fund,  understood  to 
be  for  a  common  benefit.  While  we  watch  our  public  men, 
let  us  watch  one  another  as  to  this  duty,  which  is  also  public, 
and  more  momentous  even  than  obedience  to  sanitary  regula- 
tions. While  we  resolutely  declare  against  the  wickedness 
in  high  places,  let  us  set  ourselves  also  against  the  wicked- 
ness in  low  places ;  not  quarrelling  which  came  first,  or  which 
is  the  worse  of  the  two, — not  trying  to  settle  the  miserable 
precedence  of  plague  or  famine,  but  insisting  unflinchingly  on 
remedies  once  ascertained,  and  summoning  those  who  hold  the 
treasure  of  knowledge  to  remember  that  they  hold  it  in  trust, 
and  that  with  them  lies  the  task  of  searching  for  new  reme- 
dies, and  finding  the  right  methods  of  applying  them. 

To  find  right  remedies  and  right  methods!  Here  is  the 
great  function  of  knowledge :  here  the  life  of  one  man  may 
make  a  fresh  era  straight  away,  in  which  a  sort  of  suffering 
that  has  existed  shall  exist  no  more.  For  the  thousands  of 
years,  down  to  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century  since 
Christ,  that  human  limbs  had  been  hacked  and  amputated, 
nobody  knew  how  to  stop  the  bleeding  except  by  searing  the 
ends  of  the  vessels  with  red-hot  iron.  But  then  came  a  man 
named  Ambrose  Pare,  and  said,  "  Tie  up  the  arteries !  "  That 
was  a  fine  word  to  utter.  It  contained  the  statement  of  a 


206  ADDRESS  TO  WORKING  MEN, 

method — a  plan  by  which  a  particular  evil  was  forever  as- 
suaged. Let  us  try  to  discern  tlie  men  whose  words  carry  that 
sort  of  kernel,  and  choose  such  men  to  be  our  guides  and  rep- 
resentatives— not  choose  platform  swaggerers,  who  bring  us 
nothing  but  the  ocean  to  make  our  broth  with. 

To  get  the  chief  power  into  the  hands  of  the  wisest,  which 
means  to  get  our  life  regulated  according  to  the  truest  princi- 
ples mankind  is  in  possession  of,  is  a  problem  as  old  as  the 
very  notion  of  wisdom.  The  solution  comes  slowly,  because 
men  collectively  can  only  be  made  to  embrace  principles,  and 
to  act  on  them,  by  the  slow  stupendous  teaching  of  the  world's 
events.  Men  will  go  on  planting  potatoes,  and  nothing  else 
but  potatoes,  till  a  potato  disease  comes  and  forces  them  to 
find  out  the  advantage  of  a  varied  crop.  Selfishness,  stupid- 
ity, sloth,  persist  in  trying  to  adapt  the  world  to  their  desires, 
till  a  time  comes  when  the  world  manifests  itself  as  too  decid- 
edly inconvenient  to  them.  Wisdom  stands  outside  of  man 
and  urges  itself  upon  him,  like  the  marks  of  the  changing  sea- 
sons, before  it  finds  a  home  within  him,  directs  his  actions, 
and  from  the  precious  effects  of  obedience  begets  a  correspond- 
ing love. 

But  while  still  outside  of  us,  wisdom  often  looks  terrible, 
and  wears  strange  forms,  wrapped  in  the  changing  conditions 
of  a  struggling  world.  It  wears  now  the  form  of  wants  and 
just  demands  in  a  great  multitude  of  British  men :  wants  and 
demands  urged  into  existence  by  the  forces  of  a  maturing 
world.  And  it  is  in  virtue  of  this — in  virtue  of  this  presence 
of  wisdom  on  our  side  as  a  mighty  fact,  physical  and  moral, 
which  must  enter  into  and  shape  the  thoughts  and  actions  of 
mankind — that  we  working  men  have  obtained  the  suffrage. 
Not  because  we  are.  an  excellent  multitude,  but  because  we  are 
a  needy  multitude. 

But  now,  for  our  own  part,  we  have  seriously  to  consider 
this  outside  wisdom  which  lies  in  the  supreme  unalterable  na- 
ture of  things,  and  watch  to  give  it  a  home  within  us  and  obey 
it.  If  the  claims  of  the  unendowed  multitude  of  working  men 
hold  within  them  principles  which  must  shape  the  future,  it 
is  not  less  true  that  the  endowed  classes,  in  their  inheritance 
from  the  past,  hold  the  precious  material  without  which  n« 


BY  FELIX  HOLT.  207 

worthy,  noble  future  can  be  moulded.  Many  of  the  highest 
uses  of  life  are  in  their  keeping;  and  if  privilege  has  often 
been  abused,  it  has  also  been  the  nurse  of  excellence.  Here 
again  we  have  to  submit  ourselves  to  the  great  law  of  inheri- 
tance. If  we  quarrel  with  the  way  in  which  the  labors' and 
earnings  of  the  past  have  been  preserved  and  handed  down, 
we  are  just  as  bigoted,  just  as  narrow,  just  as  wanting  in  that 
religion  which  keeps  an  open  ear  and  an  obedient  mind  to  the 
teachings  of  fact,  as  we  accuse  those  of  being  who  quarrel  with 
the  new  truths  and  new  needs  which  are  disclosed  in  the  pres- 
ent. The  deeper  insight  we  get  into  the  causes  of  human 
trouble,  and  the  ways  by  which  men  are  made  better  and  hap- 
pier, the  less  we  shall  be  inclined  to  the  unprofitable  spirit  and 
practice  of  reproaching  classes  as  such  in  a  wholesale  fashion. 
Not  all  the  evils  of  our  condition  are  such  as  we  can  justly 
blame  others  for ;  and,  I  repeat,  many  of  them  are  such  as  no 
change  of  institutions  can  quickly  remedy.  To  discern  between 
the  evils  that  energy  can  remove  and  the  evils  that  patience 
must  bear,  makes  the  difference  between  manliness  and  child- 
ishness, between  good  sense  and  folly.  And  more  than  that, 
without  such  discernment,  seeing  that  we  have  grave  duties 
toward  our  own  body  and  the  country  at  large,  we  can  hardly 
escape  acts  of  fatal  rashness  and  injustice. 

I  am  addressing  a  mixed  assembly  of  workmen,  and  some 
of  you  may  be  as  well  or  better  fitted  than  I  am  to  take  up 
this  office.  But  they  will  not  think  it  amiss  in  me  that  I 
have  tried  to  bring  together  the  considerations  most  likely  to 
be  of  service  to  us  in  preparing  ourselves  for  the  use  of  our 
new  opportunities.  I  have  avoided  touching  on  special  ques- 
tions. The  best  help  toward  judging  well  on  these  is  to  ap- 
proach them  in  the  right  temper,  without  vain  expectation, 
and  with  a  resolution  which  is  mixed  with  temperance. 


LEAVES  FROM  A  NOTE-BOOK. 


To  lay  down  in  the  shape  of  practical  moral  rules  courses 
of  conduct  only  to  be  made  real  by  the  rarest  states  of  motive 

and  disposition,  tends  not  to  elevate  but  to  de- 
Authorship  ,,  ,          TIT  •        i 

grade  the  general  standard,  by  turning  that  rare 

attainment  from  an  object  of  admiration  into  an  impossible 
prescription,  against  which  the  average  nature  first  rebels  and 
then  flings  out  ridicule.  It  is  for  art  to  present  images  of  a 
lovelier  order  than  the  actual,  gently  winning  the  affections, 
and  so  determining  the  taste.  But  in  any  rational  criticism 
of  the  time  which  is  meant  to  guide  a  practical  reform,  it  is 
idle  to  insist  that  action  ought  to  be  this  or  that,  without  con- 
sidering how  far  the  outward  conditions  of  such  change  are 
present,  even  supposing  the  inward  disposition  toward  it. 
Practically,  we  must  be  satisfied  to  aim  at  something  short  of 
perfection — and  at  something  very  much  further  off  it  in  one 
case  than  in  another.  While  the  fundamental  conceptions  of 
morality  seem  as  stationary  through  ages  as  the  laws  of  life, 
so  that  a  moral  manual  written  eighteen  centuries  ago  still 
admonishes  us  that  we  are  low  in  our  attainments,  it  is  quite 
otherwise  with  the  degree  to  which  moral  conceptions  have 
penetrated  the  various  forms  of  social  activity,  and  made  what 
may  be  called  the  special  conscience  of  each  calling,  art,  or 
industry.  While  on  some  points  of  social  duty  public  opinion 
has  reached  a  tolerably  high  standard,  on  others  a  public  opin- 
ion is  not  yet  born;  and  there  are  even  some  functions  and 
practices  with  regard  to  which  men  far  above  the  line  in  hon- 
orableness  of  nature  feel  hardly  any  scrupulosity,  though  their 
consequent  behavior  is  easily  shown  to  be  as  injurious  as  bri- 
bery, or  any  other  slowly  poisonous  procedure  which  degrades 
the  social  vitality. 


LEAVES  FROM  A  NOTE  BOOK.  209 

Among  those  callings  which  have  not  yet  acquired  anything 
near  a  full-grown  conscience  in  the  public  mind  is  Author- 
ship. Yet  the  changes  brought  about  by  the  spread  of  instruc- 
tion and  the  consequent  struggles  of  an  uneasy  ambition,  are, 
or  at  least  might  well  be,  forcing  on  many  minds  the  need  of 
some  regulating  principle  with  regard  to  the  publication  of 
intellectual  products,  which  would  override  the  rule  of  the 
market :  a  principle,  that  is,  which  should  be  derived  from  a 
fixing  of  the  author's  vocation  according  to  those  characteris- 
tics in  which  it  differs  from  the  other  bread- winning  profes- 
sions. Let  this  be  done,  if  possible,  without  any  cant,  which 
would  carry  the  subject  into  Utopia  away  from  existing  needs. 
The  guidance  wanted  is  a  clear  notion  of  what  should  justify 
men  and  women  in  assuming  public  authorship,  and  of  the 
way  in  which  they  should  be  determined  by  what  is  usually 
called  success.  But  the  forms  of  authorship  must  be  distin- 
guished; journalism,  for  example,  carrying  a  necessity  for 
that  continuous  production  which  in  other  kinds  of  writing  is 
precisely  the  evil  to  be  fought  against,  and  judicious  careful 
compilation,  which  is  a  great  public  service,  holding  in  its 
modest  diligence  a  guaranty  against  those  deductions  of  van- 
ity and  idleness  which  draw  many  a  young  gentleman  into 
reviewing,  instead  of  the  sorting  and  copying  which  his  small 
talents  could  not  rise  to  with  any  vigor  and  completeness. 

A  manufacturer  goes  on  producing  calicoes  as  long  and  as 
fast  as  he  can  find  a  market  for  them ;  and  in  obeying  this 
indication  of  demand  he  gives  his  factory  its  utmost  useful- 
ness to  the  world  in  general  and  to  himself  in  particular.  An- 
other manufacturer  buys  a  new  invention  of  some  light  kind 
likely  to  attract  the  public  fancy,  is  successful  in  finding  a 
multitude  who  will  give  their  testers  for  the  transiently  desir- 
able commodity,  and  before  the  fashion  is  out,  pockets  a  con- 
siderable sum  the  commodity  was  colored  with  a  green  which 
had  arsenic  in  it  that  damaged  the  factory  workers  and  the 
purchasers.  What  then?  These,  he  contends  (or  does  not 
know  or  care  to  contend),  are  superficial  effects,  which  it  is 
folly  to  dwell  upon  while  we  have  epidemic  diseases  and  bad 
government. 

The  first  manufacturer  we  will  suppose  blameless.  Is  an 
14 


210  LEAVES  FROM  A  NOTE-BOOK. 

author  simply  on  a  par  with  him,  as  to  the  rules  of  produc- 
tion? 

The  author's  capital  is  his  brain-power — power  of  inven- 
tion, power  of  writing.  The  manufacturer's  capital,  in  fortu- 
nate cases,  is  being  continually  reproduced  and  increased. 
Here  is  the  first  grand  difference  between  the  capital  which 
is  turned  into  calico  and  the  brain  capital  which  is  turned  into 
literature.  The  calico  scarcely  varies  in  appropriateness  of 
quality,  no  consumer  is  in  danger  of  getting  too  much  of  it, 
and  neglecting  his  boots,  hats,  and  flannel-shirts  in  conse- 
quence. That  there  should  be  large  quantities  of  the  same 
sort  in  the  calico  manufacture  is  an  advantage :  the  sameness 
is  desirable,  and  nobody  is  likely  to  roll  his  person  in  so  many 
folds  of  calico  as  to  become  a  mere  bale  of  cotton  goods,  and 
nullify  his  senses  of  hearing  and  touch,  while  his  morbid  pas- 
sion for  Manchester  shirtings  makes  him  still  cry  "  More !  n 
The  wise  manufacturer  gets  richer  and  richer,  and  the  consum- 
ers he  supplies  have  their  real  wants  satisfied  and  no  more. 

Let  it  be  taken  as  admitted  that  all  legitimate  social  activ- 
ity must  be  beneficial  to  others  besides  the  agent.  To  write 
prose  or  verse  as  a  private  exercise  and  satisfaction  is  not 
social  activity;  nobody  is  culpable  for  this  any  more  than  for 
learning  other  people's  verse  by  heart  if  he  does  not  neglect 
his  proper  business  in  consequence.  If  the  exercise  made  him 
sillier  or  secretly  more  self-satisfied,  that,  to  be  sure,  would 
be  a  roundabout  way  of  injuring  society ;  for  though  a  certain 
mixture  of  silliness  may  lighten  existence,  we  have  at  present 
more  than  enough. 

But  man  or  woman  who  publishes  writings  inevitably  as- 
sumes the  office  of  teacher  or  influencer  of  the  public  mind. 
Let  him  protest  as  he  will  that  he  only  seeks  to  amuse,  and 
has  no  pretension  to  do  more  than  while  away  an  hour  of 
leisure  or  weariness — "  the  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day  " — he 
can  no  more  escape  influencing  the  moral  taste,  and  with  it 
the  action  of  the  intelligence,  than  a  setter  of  fashions  in  fur- 
niture and  dress  can  fill  the  shops  with  his  designs  and  leave 
the  garniture  of  persons  and  houses  unaffected  by  his  indus- 
try. 

For  a  man  who  has  a  certain  gift  of  writing  to  say,  "I 


LEAVES  FROM  A  NOTE  BOOK.  211 

wDl  make  the  most  of  it  while  the  public  likes  my  wares- — as 
long  as  the  market  is  open  and  I  am  able  to  supply  it  at  a 
money  profit — such  profit  being  the  sign  of  liking  " — he  should 
have  a  belief  that  his  wares  have  nothing  akin  to  the  arsenic 
green  in  them,  and  also  that  his  continuous  supply  is  secure 
from  a  degradation  in  quality  which  the  habit  of  consumption 
encouraged  in  the  buyers  may  hinder  them  from  marking  their 
sense  of  by  rejection;  so  that  they  complain,  but  pay,  and 
read  while  they  complain.  Unless  he  has  that  belief,  he  is 
on  a  level  with  the  manufacturer  who  gets  rich  by  fancy-wares 
colored  with  arsenic  green.  He  really  cares  for  nothing  but 
his  income.  He  carries  on  authorship  on  the  principle  of  the 
gin-palace. 

And  bad  literature  of  the  sort  called  amusing  is  spiritual 
gin. 

A  writer  capable  of  being  popular  can  only  escape  this  so- 
cial culpability  by  first  of  all  getting  a  profound  sense  that 
literature  is  good-for-nothing,  if  it  is  not  admirably  good :  he 
must  detest  bad  literature  too  heartily  to  be  indifferent  about 
producing  it  if  only  other  people  don't  detest  it.  And  if  he 
has  this  sign  of  the  divine  afflatus  within  him,  he  must  make 
up  his  mind  that  he  must  not  pursue  authorship  as  a  vocation 
with  a  trading  determination  to  get  rich  by  it.  It  is  in  the 
highest  sense  lawful  for  him  to  get  as  good  a  price  as  he  hon- 
orably can  for  the  best  work  he  is  capable  of ;  but  not  for  him 
to  force  or  hurry  his  production,  or  even  do  over  again  what 
has  already  been  done,  either  by  himself  or  others,  so  as  to 
render  his  work  no  real  contribution,  for  the  sake  of  bringing 
up  his  income  to  the  fancy  pitch.  An  author  who  would  keep 
a  pure  and  noble  conscience,  and  with  that  a  developing  in- 
stead of  degenerating  intellect  and  taste,  must  cast  out  of  his 
aims  the  aim  to  be  rich.  And  therefore  he  must  keep  his  ex- 
penditure low — he  must  make  for  himself  no  dire  necessity  to 
earn  sums  in  order  to  pay  bills. 

In  opposition  to  this,  it  is  common  to  cite  Walter  Scott's 
case,  and  cry,  "  Would  the  world  have  got  as  much  innocent 
(and  therefore  salutary)  pleasure  out  of  Scott,  if  he  had  not 
brought  himself  under  the  pressure  of  money-need?  "  I  think 
it  would — and  more;  but  since  it  is  impossible  to  prove  what 


212        LEAVES  FROM  A  NOTE  BOOK. 

would  have  been,  I  confine  myself  to  replying  that  Scott  was 
not  justified  in  bringing  himself  into  a  position  where  severe 
consequences  to  others  depended  on  his  retaining  or  not  retain- 
ing his  mental  competence.  Still  less  is  Scott  to  be  taken  as 
an  example  to  be  followed  in  this  matter,  even  if  it  were  ad- 
mitted that  money-need  served  to  press  at  once  the  best  and 
the  most  work  out  of  him ;  any  more  than  a  great  navigator 
who  has  brought  his  ship  to  port  in  spite  of  having  taken  a 
wrong  and  perilous  route,  is  to  be  followed  as  to  his  route  by 
navigators  who  are  not  yet  ascertained  to  be  great. 

But  after  the  restraints  and  rules  which  must  guide  the  ac- 
knowledged author,  whose  power  of  making  a  real  contribu- 
tion is  ascertained,  comes  the  consideration,  how  or  on  what 
principle  are  we  to  find  a  check  for  that  troublesome  disposi- 
tion to  authorship  arising  from  the  spread  of  what  is  called 
Education,  which  turns  a  growing  rush  of  vanity  and  ambi- 
tion into  this  current?  The  well-taught,  an  increasing  num- 
ber, are  almost  all  able  to  write  essays  on  given  themes,  which 
demand  new  periodicals  to  save  them  from  lying  in  cold  ob- 
struction. The  ill-taught — also  an  increasing  number — read 
many  books,  seem  to  themselves  able  to  write  others  surpris- 
ingly like  what  they  read,  and  probably  superior,  since  the 
variations  are  such  as  please  their  own  fancy,  and  such  as 
they  would  have  recommended  to  their  favorite  authors :  these 
ill-taught  persons  are  perhaps  idle  and  want  to  give  them- 
selves "  an  object " ;  or  they  are  short  of  money,  and  feel  dis- 
inclined to  get  it  by  a  commoner  kind  of  work ;  or  they  find 
a  facility  in  putting  sentences  together  which  gives  them  more 
than  a  suspicion  that  they  have  genius,  which,  if  not  very  cor- 
dially believed  in  by  private  confidants,  will  be  recognized  by 
an  impartial  public;  or  finally,  they  observe  that  writing  is 
sometimes  well  paid,  and  sometimes  a  ground  of  fame  or  dis- 
tinction, and  without  any  use  of  punctilious  logic,  they  con- 
clude to  become  writers  themselves. 

As  to  these  ill-taught  persons,  whatever  medicines  of  a 
spiritual  sort  can  be  found  good  against  mental  emptiness  and 
inflation — such  medicines  are  needful  for  them.  The  con- 
tempt of  the  world  for  their  productions  only  comes  after  their 
disease  has  wrought  its  worst  effects.  But  what  is  to  be  said 


LEAVES  FROM  A  NOTE-BOOK.  213 

to  the  well-taught,  who  have  such  an  alarming  equality  in 
their  power  of  writing  "  like  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman n  ? 
Perhaps  they,  too,  can  only  be  cured  by  the  medicine  of 
higher  ideals  in  social  duty,  and  by  a  fuller  representation  to 
themselves  of  the  processes  by  which  the  general  culture  is 
furthered  or  impeded. 


In  endeavoring  to  estimate  a  remarkable  writer  who  aimed 
at  more  than  temporary  influence,  we  have  first  to  consider 
what  was  his  individual  contribution  to  the 
spiritual  wealth  of  mankind?  Had  he  a  new 
conception?  Did  he  animate  long-known  but 
neglected  truths  with  new  vigor,  and  cast  fresh  light  on  their 
relation  to  other  admitted  truths?  Did  he  impregnate  any 
ideas  with  a  fresh  store  of  emotion,  and  in  this  way  enlarge 
the  area  of  moral  sentiment?  Did  he  by  a  wise  emphasis 
here,  and  a  wise  disregard  there,  give  a  more  useful  or  beau- 
tiful proportion  to  aims  or  motives?  And  even  where  his 
thinking  was  most  mixed  with  the  sort  of  mistake  which  is 
obvious  to  the  majority,  as  well  as  that  which  can  only  be  dis- 
cerned by  the  instructed,  or  made  manifest  by  the  progress  of 
things,  has  it  that  salt  of  a  noble  enthusiasm  which  should 
rebuke  our  critical  discrimination  if  its  correctness  is  inspired 
with  a  less  admirable  habit  of  feeling? 

This  is  not  the  common  or  easy  course  to  take  iu  estimating 
a  modern  writer.  It  requires  considerable  knowledge  of  what 
he  has  himself  done,  as  well  as  of  what  others  had  done  be- 
fore him,  or  what  they  were  doing  contemporaneously ;  it  re- 
quires deliberate  reflection  as  to  the  degree  in  which  our  own 
prejudices  may  hinder  us  from  appreciating  the  intellectual 
or  moral  bearing  of  what  on  a  first  view  offends  us.  An  easier 
course  is  to  notice  some  salient  mistakes,  and  take  them  as 
decisive  of  the  writer's  incompetence;  or  to  find  out  that 
something  apparently  much  the  same  as  what  he  has  said  in 
some  connection  not  clearly  ascertained,  had  been  said  by 
somebody  else,  though  without  great  effect,  until  this  new  ef- 
fect of  discrediting  the  other's  originality  had  shown  itself  as 
an  adequate  final  cause :  or  to  pronounce  from  the  point  of  view 


214        LEAVES  FROM  A  NOTE  BOOK 

of  individual  taste  that  this  writer  for  whom  regard  is  claimed 
is  repulsive,  wearisome,  not  to  be  borne  except  by  those  dull 
persons  who  are  of  a  different  opinion. 

Elder  writers  who  have  passed  into  classics  were  doubtless 
treated  in  this  easy  way  when  they  were  still  under  the  mis- 
fortune of  being  recent — nay,  are  still  dismissed  with  the  same 
rapidity  of  judgment  by  daring  ignorance.  But  people  who 
think  that  they  have  a  reputation  to  lose  in  the  matter  of 
knowledge,  have  looked  into  cyclopaedias  and  histories  of  phi- 
losophy or  literature,  and  possessed  themselves  of  the  duly  bal- 
anced epithets  concerning  the  immortals.  They  are  not  left 
to  their  own  unguided  rashness,  or  their  own  unguided  pusil- 
lanimity. And  it  is  this  sheeplike  flock  who  have  no  direct 
impressions,  no  spontaneous  delight,  no  genuine  objection  or 
self-confessed  neutrality  in  relation  to  the  writers  become  clas- 
sic— it  is  these  who  are  incapable  of  passing  a  genuine  judg- 
ment on  the  living.  Necessarily.  The  susceptibility  they 
have  kept  active  is  a  susceptibility  to  their  own  reputation  fox- 
passing  the  right  judgment,  not  the  susceptibility  to  qualities 
in  the  object  of  judgment.  Who  learns  to  discriminate  shades 
of  color  by  considering  what  is  expected  of  him?  The  habit 
of  expressing  borrowed  judgments  stupefies  the  sensibilities, 
which  are  the  only  foundation  of  genuine  judgments,  just  as 
the  constant  reading  and  retailing  of  results  from  other  men's 
observations  through  the  microscope,  without  ever  looking 
through  the  lens  one's  self,  is  an  instruction  in  some  truths 
and  some  prejudices,  but  is  no  instruction  in  observant  suscep- 
tibility ;  on  the  contrary,  it  breeds  a  habit  of  inward  seeing 
according  to  verbal  statement,  which  dulls  the  power  of  out- 
ward seeing  according  to  visual  evidence. 

On  this  subject,  as  on  so  many  others,  it  is  difficult  to  strike 
the  balance  between  the  educational  needs  of  passivity  or  re- 
ceptivity, and  independent  selection.  We  should  learn  noth- 
ing without  the  tendency  to  implicit  acceptance;  but  there 
must  clearly  be  a  limit  to  such  mental  submission,  else  we 
should  come  to  a  stand-still.  The  human  mind  would  be  no 
better  than  a  dried  specimen,  representing  an  unchangeable 
type.  When  the  assimilation  of  new  matter  ceases,  decay 
must  begin.  In  a  reasoned  self -restraining  deference  there  is 


.  LEAVES  FROM  A  NOTE  BOOK. 

as  much  energy  as  in  rebellion;  but  among  the  less  capable, 
one  must  admit  that  the  superior  energy  is  on  the  side  of  the 
rebels.  And  certainly  a  man  who  dares  to  say  that  he  finds 
an  eminent  classic  feeble  here,  extravagant  there,  and  in  gen- 
eral overrated,  may  chance  to  give  an  opinion  which  has  some, 
genuine  discrimination  in  it  concerning  a  new  work  or  a  living 
thinker — an  opinion  such  as  can  hardly  ever  be  got  from  the 
reputed  judge  who  is  a  correct  echo  of  the  most  approved 
phrases  concerning  those  who  have  been  already  canonized. 


What  is  the  best  way  of  telling  a  story?  Since  the  stand- 
ard must  be  the  interest  of  the  audience,  there  must  be  sev- 
eral or  many  good  ways  rather  than  one  best. 

,  .    /        .    ,  .  .      ,..  Story  Telling. 

For  we  get  interested  in  the  stories  life  presents 

to  us  through  divers  orders  and  modes  of  presentation.  Very 
commonly  our  first  awakening  to  a  desire  of  knowing  a  man's 
past  or  future  comes  from  our  seeing  him  as  a  stranger  in 
some  unusual  or  pathetic  or  humorous  situation,  or  manifest- 
ing some  remarkable  characteristics.  We  make  inquiries  in 
consequence,  or  we  become  observant  and  attentive  whenever 
opportunities  of  knowing  more  may  happen  to  present  them- 
selves without  our  search.  You  have  seen  a  refined  face 
among  the  prisoners  picking  tow  in  jail;  you  afterward  see 
the  same  unforgetable  face  in  a  pulpit :  he  must  be  of  dull 
fibre  who  would  not  care  to  know  more  about  a  life  which 
showed  such  contrasts,  though  he  might  gather  his  knowledge 
in  a  fragmentary  and  unchronological  way. 

Again,  we  have  heard  much,  or  at  least  something  not  quite 
common,  about  a  man  whom  we  have  never  seen,  and  hence 
we  look  round  with  curiosity  when  we  are  told  that  he  is  pres- 
ent; whatever  he  says  or  does  before  us  is  charged  with  a 
meaning  due  to  our  previous  hearsay  knowledge  about  him, 
gathered  either  from  dialogue  of  which  he  was  expressly  and 
emphatically  the  subject,  or  from  incidental  remark,  or  from 
general  report  either  in  or  out  of  print. 

These  indirect  ways  of  arriving  at  knowledge  are  always  the 
most  stirring  even  in  relation  to  impersonal  subjects.  To  see 


216         LEAVES  FROM  A  NOTE  BOOK. 

a  chemical  experiment  gives  an  attractiveness  to  a  definition 
of  chemistry,  and  fills  it  with  a  significance  which  it  would 
never  have  had  without  the  pleasant  shock  of  an  unusual  se- 
quence such  as  the  transformation  of  a  solid  into  gas,  and  vke 
versa.  To  see  a  word  for  the  first  time  either  as  substantive 
or  adjective  in  a  connection  where  we  care  about  knowing  its 
complete  meaning,  is  the  way  to  vivify  its  meaning  in  our  rec- 
ollection. Curiosity  becomes  the  more  eager  from  the  incom- 
pleteness of  the  first  information.  Moreover,  it  is  in  this  way 
that  memory  works  in  its  incidental  revival  of  events :  some 
salient  experience  appears  in  inward  vision,  and  in  conse- 
quence the  antecedent  facts  are  retraced  from  what  is  regarded 
as  the  beginning  of  the  episode  in  which  that  experience  made 
a  more  or  less  strikingly  memorable  part.  "  Ah !  I  remember 
addressing  the  mob  from  the  hustings  at  Westminster — you 
wouldn't  have  thought  that  I  could  ever  have  been  in  such  a 
position.  Well,  how  I  came  there  was  in  this  way—  "  ;  and 
then  follows  a  retrospective  narration. 

The  modes  of  telling  a  story  founded  on  these  processes  of 
outward  and  inward  life  derive  their  effectiveness  from  the 
superior  mastery  of  images  and  pictures  in  grasping  the  atten- 
tion— or,  one  might  say  with  more  fundamental  accuracy,  from 
the  fact  that  our  earliest,  strongest  impressions,  our  most  in- 
timate convictions,  are  simply  images  added  to  more  or  less  of 
sensation.  These  are  the  primitive  instruments  of  thought. 
Hence  it  is  not  surprising  that  early  poetry  took  this  way — 
telling  a  daring  deed,  a  glorious  achievement,  without  caring 
for  what  went  before.  The  desire  for  orderly  narration  is  a 
later,  more  reflective  birth.  The  presence  of  the  Jack  in  the 
box  affects  every  child :  it  is  the  more  reflective  lad,  the  minia- 
ture philosopher,  who  wants  to  know  how  he  got  there. 

The  only  stories  life  presents  to  us  in  an  orderly  way  are 
those  of  our  autobiography,  or  the  career  of  our  companions 
from  our  childhood  upward,  or  perhaps  of  our  own  children. 
But  it  is  a  great  art  to  make  a  connected  strictly  relevant  nar- 
ative  of  such  careers  as  we  can  recount  from  the  beginning.  In 
these  cases  the  sequence  of  associations  is  almost  sure  to  over- 
master the  sense  of  proportion.  Such  narratives  ab  ovo  are 
surnmer's-day  stories  for  happy  loungers  j  not  the  cup  of  self- 


LEAVES  FROM  A  NOTE  BOOK.        217 

forgetting  excitement  to  the  busy  who  can  snatch  an  hour  of 
entertainment. 

But  the  simple  opening  of  a  story  with  a  date  and  necessary 
account  of  places  and  people,  passing  on  quietly  toward  the 
more  rousing  elements  of  narrative  and  dramatic  presentation, 
without  need  of  retrospect,  has  its  advantages  which  have  to 
be  measured  by  the  nature  of  the  story.  Spirited  narrative, 
without  more  than  a  touch  of  dialogue  here  and  there,  may  be 
made  eminently  interesting,  and  is  suited  to  the  novelette. 
Examples  of  its  charm  are  seen  in  the  short  tales  in  which  the 
French  have  a  mastery  never  reached  by  the  English,  who 
usually  demand  coarser  flavors  than  are  given  by  that  delight- 
ful gayety  which  is  well  described  by  La  Fontaine J  as  not  any- 
thing that  provokes  fits  of  laughter,  but  a  certain  charm,  an 
agreeable  mode  of  handling  which  lends  attractiveness  to  all 
subjects  even  the  most  serious.  And  it  is  this  sort  of  gayety 
which  plays  around  the  best  French  novelettes.  But  the  open- 
ing chapters  of  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield  "  are  as  fine  as  any- 
thing that  can  be  done  in  this  way. 

Why  should  a  story  not  be  told  in  the  most  irregular  fash- 
ion that  an  author's  idiosyncrasy  may  prompt,  provided  that 
he  gives  us  what  we  can  enjoy?  The  objections  to  Sterne's 
wild  way  of  telling  "  Tristram  Shandy  "  lie  more  solidly  in 
the  quality  of  the  interrupting  matter  than  in  the  fact  of  in- 
terruption. The  dear  public  would  do  well  to  reflect  that  they 
are  often  bored  from  the  want  of  flexibility  in  their  own  minds. 
They  are  like  the  topers  of  "one  liquor." 


The  exercise  of  a  veracious  imagination  in  historical  pictur- 
ing seems  to  be  capable  of  a  development  that  might  help 
the  judgment  greatly  with  regard  to  present 
and  future  events.  By  veracious  imagination, 
I  mean  the  working  out  in  detail  of  the  various 
steps  by  which  political  or  a  social  change  was  reached,  using 
all  extant  evidence  and  supplying  deficiencies  by  careful  ana- 

!"Je  n'appelle  pas  gayete"  ce  qui  excite  le  rire,  mais  un  certain 
charme,  un  air  agr6able  qu'on  peut  donner  a  toutes  sortes  de  sujets, 
mesme  les  plus  s6rieux." — Preface  to  Fables. 


218  LEAVES  FROM  A  KOTE-BOOK. 

logical  creation.  How  triumphant  opinions  originally  spread 
— how  institutions  arose — what  were  the  conditions  of  great 
inventions,  discoveries,  or  theoretic  conceptions — what  circum- 
stances affecting  individual  lots  are  attendant  on  the  decay 
of  long-established  systems, — all  these  grand  elements  of  his- 
tory require  the  illumination  of  special  imaginative  treatment. 
But  effective  truth  in  this  application  of  art  requires  freedom 
from  the  vulgar  coercion  of  conventional  plot,  which  is  become 
hardly  of  higher  influence  on  imaginative  representation  than 
a  detailed  "  order  "  for  a  picture  sent  by  a  rich  grocer  to  an 
eminent  painter — allotting  a  certain  portion  of  the  canvas  to 
a  rural  scene,  another  to  a  fashionable  group,  with  a  request 
for  a  murder  in  the  middle  distance,  and  a  little  comedy  to 
relieve  it.  A  slight  approximation  to  the  veracious  glimpses 
of  history  artistically  presented,  which  I  am  indicating,  but  ap- 
plied only  to  an  incident  of  contemporary  life,  is  "  Uri  paquet 
de  lettres  "  by  Gustave  Droz.  For  want  of  such  real,  minute 
vision  of  how  changes  come  about  in  the  past,  we  fall  into 
ridiculously  inconsistent  estimates  of  actual  movements,  con- 
demning in  the  present  what  we  belaud  in  the  past,  and  pro- 
nouncing impossible  processes  that  have  been  repeated  again 
and  again  in  the  historical  preparation  of  the  very  system  under 
which  we  live.  A  false  kind  of  idealization  dulls  our  percep- 
tion of  the  meaning  in  words  when  they  relate  to  past  events 
which  have  had  a  glorious  issue :  for  lack  of  comparison  no 
warning  image  rises  to  check  scorn  of  the  very  phrases  which 
in  other  associations  are  consecrated. 

Utopian  pictures  help  the  reception  of  ideas  as  to  construc- 
tive results,  but  hardly  so  much  as  a  vivid  presentation  of 
how  results  have  been  actually  brought  about,  especially  in 
religious  and  social  change.  And  there  is  the  pathos,  the 
heroism  often  accompanying  the  decay  and  final  struggle  of 
old  systems,  which  has  not  had  its  share  of  tragic  commemo- 
ration. What  really  took  place  in  and  around  Constantino 
before,  upon,  and  immediately  after  his  declared  conversion? 
Could  a  momentary  flash  be  thrown  on  Eusebius  in  his  say- 
ings and  doings  as  an  ordinary  man  in  bishop's  garments?  Or 
on  Julian  and  Libanius?  There  has  been  abundant  writing  on 
such  great  turning-points,  but  not  such  as  serves  to  instruct 


LEAVES  FROM  A  NOTE-BOOK.  219 

the  imagination  in  true  comparison.  I  want  something  differ- 
ent from  the  abstract  treatment  which  belongs  to  grave  history 
from  a  doctrinal  point  of  view,  and  something  different  from 
the  schemed  picturesqueness  of  ordinary  historical  fiction.  I 
want  brief,  severely  conscientious  reproductions,  in  their  con- 
crete incidents,  of  pregnant  movements  in  the  past. 


The  supremacy  given  in  European  cultures  to  the  literatures 
of  Greece  and  Rome  has  had  an  effect  almost  equal  to  that  of 
a  common  religion  in  binding  the  Western  na- 
tions together.  It  is  foolish  to  be  forever  com-  origixiaUt 
plaining  of  the  consequent  uniformity,  as  if 
there  were  an  endless  power  of  originality  in  the  human  mind. 
Great  and  precious  origination  must  always  be  comparatively 
rare,  and  can  only  exist  on  condition  of  a  wide  massive  uni- 
formity. When  a  multitude  of  men  have  learned  to  use  the 
same  language  in  speech  and  writing,  then  and  then  only  can 
the  greatest  masters  of  language  arise.  For  in  what  does  their 
mastery  consist?  They  use  words  which  are  already  a  famil- 
iar medium  of  understanding  and  sympathy  in  such  a  way  as 
greatly  to  enlarge  the  understanding  and  sympathy.  Origi- 
nality of  this  order  changes  the  wild  grasses  into  world-feed- 
ing grain.  Idiosyncrasies  are  pepper  and  spices  of  question- 
able aroma. 


"  Is  the  time  we  live  in  prosaic?  " — "  That  depends :  it  must 
certainly  be  prosaic  to  one  whose  mind  takes  a  prosaic  stand 
in  contemplating  it." — "But  it  is  precisely  the 
most  poetic  minds  that  most  groan  over  the  vul-      prosaic  all 
garity  of  the  present,  its  degenerate  sensibility      Things  are 
to  beauty,  eagerness  for  materialistic  explana-     . 
tion,  noisy  triviality." — "Perhaps  they  would  have  had  the 
same  complaint  to  make  about  the  age  of  Elizabeth,  if,  living 
then,  they  had  fixed  their  attention  on  its  more  sordid  ele- 
ments, or  had  been  subject  to  the  grating  influence  of  its 
every -day  meannesses,  and  had  sought'  refuge  from  them  in 


220  LEAVES  FROM  A  NOTE  BOOK, 

the  contemplation  of  whatever  suited  their  taste  in  a  former 
age." 

We  get  our  knowledge  of  perfect  Love  by  glimpses  and  in 
fragments  chiefly — the  rarest  only  among  us  knowing  what 

it  is  to  worship  and  caress,  reverence  and  cher- 
ious^Love "*  *sk>  Divide  our  bread  and  mingle  our  thoughts 

at  one  and  the  same  time,  under  inspiration  of 
the  same  object.  Finest  aromas  will  so  often  leave  the  fruits 
to  which  they  are  native  and  cling  elsewhere,  leaving  the 
fruit  empty  of  all  but  its  coarser  structure! 


In  the  times  of  national  mixture  when  modern  Europe  was, 
as  one  may  say,  a-brewing,  it  was  open  to  a  man  who  did  not 

like  to  be  judged  by  the  Roman  law,  to  choose 
We  Make  which  of  certain  other  codes  he  would  be  tried 

Precedents,  by-  So,  in  our  own  times,  they  who  openly 

adopt  a  higher  rule  than  their  neighbors,  do 
thereby  make  active  choice  as  to  the  laws  and  precedents  by 
which  they  shall  be  approved  or  condemned,  and  thus  it  may 
happen  that  we  see  a  man  morally  pilloried  for  a  very  custom- 
ary deed,  and  yet  having  no  right  to  complain,  inasmuch  as 
in  his  foregoing  deliberative  course  of  life  he  had  referred  him- 
self to  the  tribunal  of  those  higher  conceptions,  before  which 
such  a  deed  is  without  question  condemnable. 


Tolerance  first  comes  through  equality  of  struggle,  as  in  the 
case  of  Arianism  and  Catholicism  in  the  early  times — Valens, 

Eastern  and  Arian,  Valentinian,  Western  and 
Tolerance  Catholic,  alike  publishing  edicts  of  tolerance; 

or  it  comes  from  a  common  need  of  relief  from 
an  oppressive  predominance,  as  when  James  II.  published  his 
Act  of  Tolerance  toward  non-Anglicans,  being  forced  into 
liberality  toward  the  Dissenters  by  the  need  to  get  it  for  the 
Catholics.  Community  of  interest  is  the  root  of  justice;  com- 
munity of  suffering,  the  root  of  pity;  community  of  joy,  the 
root  of  love. 


LEAVES  FROM  A  NOTE-BOOK.  221 

Enveloped  in  a  common  mist,  we  seem  to  walk  in  clearness 
ourselves,  and  behold  only  the  mist  that  enshrouds  others. 


Sympathetic  people  are  often  incommunicative  about  them- 
selves :  they  give  back  reflected  images  which  hide  their  own 
depths. 

The  pond  said  to  the  ocean,  "  Why  do  you  rage  so?  The 
wind  is  not  so  very  violent — nay,  it  is  already  fallen.  Look 
at  me.  I  rose  into  no  foaming  waves,  and  am  already  smooth 
again. " 

Many  feel  themselves  very  confidently  on  safe  ground  when 
they  say :  It  must  be  good  for  man  to  know  the  Truth.  But 
it  is  clearly  not  good  for  a  particular  man  to 
know  some  particular  truth,  as  irremediable 
treachery  in  one  whom  he  cherishes — better  that 
he  should  die  without  knowing  it. 

Of  scientific  truth,  is  it  not  conceivable  that  some  facts  as 
to  the  tendency  of  things  affecting  the  final  destination  of  the 
race  might  be  more  hurtful  when  they  had  entered  into  the 
human  consciousness  than  they  would  have  been  if  they  had 
remained  purely  external  in  their  activity? 


There  is  no  such  thing  as  an  impotent  or  neutral  deity,  if 
the  deity  be  really  believed  in,  and  contemplated  either  in 
prayer  or  meditation.  Every  object  of  thought 

reacts  on  the  mind  that  conceives  it,  still  more     Divine  Grace 

~f         &»  J&G&l  i^nia.- 
on  that  which  habitually  contemplates  it.     In      nation, 

this  we  may  be  said  to  solicit  help  from  a  gen- 
eralization or  abstraction.     Wordsworth  had  this  truth  in  his 
consciousness  when  he  wrote  (in  the  Prelude) : — 

"Nor  general  truths,  which  are  themselves  a  sort 
Of  elements  and  agents,  Under-powers 
Subordinate  helpers  of  the  living  mind" — 

not  indeed  precisely  in  the  same  relation,  but  with  a  meaning 
which  involves  that  wider  moral  influence, 


222        LEAVES  FROM  A  NOTE  BOOK 

One  can  hardly  insist  too  much,  in  the  present  stage  of 
thinking,  on  the  efficacy  of  feeling  in  stimulating  to  ardent 
co-operation,  quite  apart  from  the  conviction 
Excess^  that  such  co-operation  is  needed  for  the  achieve- 

Feeling  is  ment  of  the  end  in  view.  Just  as  hatred  will 

vent  itself  in  private  curses  no  longer  believed 
to  have  any  potency,  and  joy,  in  private  singing  far  out 
among  the  woods  and  fields,  so  sympathetic  feeling  can  only 
be  satisfied  by  joining  in  the  action  which  expresses  it,  though 
the  added  "  Bravo!  "  the  added  push,  the  added  penny,  is  no 
more  than  a  grain  of  dust  on  a  rolling  mass.  When  students 
take  the  horses  out  of  a  political  hero's  carriage,  and  draw 
him  home  by  the  force  of  their  own  muscle,  the  struggle  in 
each  is  simply  to  draw  or  push,  without  consideration  whether 
his  place  would  not  be  as  well  filled  by  somebody  else,  or 
whether  his  one  arm  be  really  needful  to  the  effect.  It  is 
under  the  same  inspiration  that  abundant  help  rushes  toward 
the  scene  of  a  fire,  rescuing  imperilled  lives,  and  laboring  with 
generous  rivalry  in  carrying  buckets.  So  the  old  blind  King 
John  of  Bohemia  at  the  battle  of  Crecj"  begged  his  vassals  to 
lead  him  into  the  fight  that  he  might  strike  a  good  blow, 
though  his  .own  stroke,  possibly  fatal  to  himself,  could  not 
turn  by  a  hair's -breadth  the  imperious  course  of  victory. 

The  question,  "  Of  what  use  is  it  for  me  to  work  toward  an 
end  confessedly  good?  "  comes  from  that  sapless  kind  of  rea- 
soning which  is  falsely  taken  for  a  sign  of  supreme  mental 
activity,  but  is  really  due  to  languor,  or  incapability  of  that 
mental  grasp  which  makes  objects  strongly  present,  and  to  a 
lack  of  sympathetic  emotion.  In  the  "  Spanish  Gypsy  "  Fe- 
dalma  says, — 

"The  grandest  death  !  to  die  in  vain — for  Love 
Greater  than  sways  the  forces  of  the  world,"1 — 

referring  to  the  image  of  the  disciples  throwing  themselves, 
consciously  in  vain,  on  the  Roman  spears.  I  really  believe 
and  mean  this,  — not  as  a  rule  of  general  action,  but  as  a  pos- 

1  V.  what  Demosthenes  says  (De  Corona)  about  Athens  pursuing  the 
same  course,  though  she  had  known  from  the  beginning  that  her  heroic 
resistance  would  be  in  vain. 


LEAVES  FROM  A  NOTE-BOOK.  223 

sible  grand  instance  of  determining  energy  in  human  sym- 
pathy, which  even  in  particular  cases,  where  it  has  only  a 
magnificent  futility,  is  more  adorable,  or  as  we  say  divine, 
than  unpitying  force,  or  than  a  prudent  calculation  of  results. 
Perhaps  it  is  an  implicit  joy  in  the  resources  of  our  human 
nature  which  has  stimulated  admiration  for  acts  of  self-sacri- 
fice which  are  vain  as  to  their  immediate  end.  Marcus  Cur- 
tius  was  probably  not  imagined  as  concluding  to  himself  that 
he  and  his  horse  would  so  fill  up  the  gap  as  to  make  a  smooth 
terra  firma.  The  impulse  and  act  made  the  heroism,  not  the 
correctness  of  adaptation.  No  doubt  the  passionate  inspira^ 
tion  which  prompts  and  sustains  a  course  of  self-sacrificing 
labor  in  the  light  of  soberly  estimated  results  gathers  the 
highest  title  to  our  veneration,  and  makes  the  supreme  hero- 
ism. But  the  generous  leap  of  impulse  is  needed  too  to  swell 
the  flood  of  sympathy  in  us  beholders,  that  we  may  not  fall 
completely  under  the  mastery  of  calculation,  which  in  its  turn 
may  fail  of  ends  for  want  of  energy  'got  from  ardor.  We  have 
need  to  keep  the  sluices  open  for  possible  influxes  of  the  rarer 
sort. 


THE  END. 


Fedalma  entered,  cast  away  the  cloud 

Of  serge  and  linen,  and,  outbeaming  bright, 

Advanced  a  pace  towards  Silva."— Front  is. 

Eliot— Spanish  Gypsy. 


POETICAL  WORKS. 


CONTENTS. 


PA6X 

TUB  8P£XI8H  GTPOY,         .........      6 

THB  LEGENI>  OF  JUBAL, 260 

(Reprinted  from  **  MacmUlun's  Magazine.") 

AGATHA, 272 

(Reprinted  from  "  The  Atlantic  Monthly.") 

ARMGART,  . 284 

(Reprinted  from  "  Macmillan's  Magazine.") 

How  LISA  LOVED  THB  KINO,  ........  826 

(Reprinted  from  "  Blackwood's  Magazine,") 

A  MINOR  PROPHBT, 843 

BROTHBB  AND  SISTER, 362 

STRADIVARIUB,  .        .-.        .        .        ..        •        •        •        •  858 

A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY,        .......  363 

(Reprinted  from  "  Macml Han's  Magazine.") 

Two  LOVERS, 886 

SELF  AND  LIFE, 38^ 

"  SWEET  EVENINGS  COMB  AND  Go,  LOVE," 391 

THB  DEATH  OP  MOSES, 892 

ARIOS, .  396 

"  O  MAT  I  JOIN  TH8  CHOIR  INVISIBLE  I " 3" 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


POEMS  OF  GEOKGE  ELIOT. 

"  Fedalma  entered,  cast  away  the  cloud  of  serge  and  linen,  and, 

outbeaming  bright,  advanced  a  pace  towards  Silva.".  .Front IK. 

PAGE 

"This  deep  mountain  gorge  slopes  widening  on  the  olive-plumed 

plains  of  fair  Granada." 5 

"A  figure  lithe,  all  white  and   saffron  robed,    flashed   right 

across  the  circle. " 45 

"  My  father  .  .  .  comes  .  .  .  my  father." 94 

"His  doublet  loose,  his  right  arm  backward  flung,  his  left 

caressing  close  the  long-necked  lute. " 160 

"Ay,  'tis  a  sword  that  parts  the  Spaniard  and  the  Zincala." 190 

"  Down  fell  the  great  chief,  and  Silva  staggering  back,  heard  not 

the  gypsies  shriek." 229 

"  Their  sails  .  .  .  like  broad  wings  poised." 235 

"Then  Jubal  poured  his  triumph  in  a  song." 259 

' '  He  sought  the  screen  of  thorny  thickets,  and  there  fell  unseen. "  269 

"Come  with  me  to  the  mountain  where  earth  spreads  soft  and 

rounded  breasts  to  feed  her  children." 272 

"  Fair  Countess  Linda  sat  upon  the  bench  close  fronting  the  old 

knitter." 275 

"Place  for  the  Queen  of  Song." 287 

"  Armgart,  dear  Armgart,  only  speak  to  me." 306 

"Across  the  homestead  to  the  rookery  elms,  whose  tall  old 

trunks  had  each  a  grassy  mound." 353 

"  Two  lovers  by  a  moss-grown  spring,  they  leaned  soft  cheeks 

together  there." 386 

Poems  of  George  Eliot. 


"  This  deep  mountain  gorge 
Slopes  widening  on  the  olive-plumed  plains 
Of  fair  Granada."— Page  5. 

Eliot -Spanish  Gypsy. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY 


This  Work  was  originally  written  in  the  winter  of  1864-66 ;  after  a 
visit  to  Spain  in  1867  it  was  rewritten  and  amplified.  The  reader  con- 
versant with  Spanish  poetry  will  see  that  in  two  of  the  Lyrics  an  at- 
tempt has  been  made  to  imitate  the  trochaic  measure  and  assonance  of 
the  Spanish  Ballad.  May  1868. 


BOOK  I. 


'Tis  the  warm  South,  where  Europe  spreads  her  lands 

Like  fretted  leaflets,  breathing  on  the  deep : 

Broad-breasted  Spain,  leaning  with  equal  love 

On  the  Mid  Sea  that  moans  with  memories, 

And  on  the  un travelled  Ocean's  restless  tides. 

This  river,  shadowed  by  the  battlements 

And  gleaming  silvery  toward  the  northern  sky, 

Feeds  the  famed  stream  that  waters  Andalus 

And  loiters,  amorous  of  the  fragrant  air, 

By  C6rdova  and  Seville  to  the  bay 

Fronting  Algarva  and  the  wandering  flood 

Of  Guadiana.     This  deep  mountain  gorge 

Slopes  widening  on  the  olive -plumed  plains 

Of  fair  Granada .  one  far-stretching  arm 

Points  to  Elvira,  one  to  eastward  heights 

Of  Alpuj arras  where  the  new-bathed  Day 

With  oriflamme  uplifted  o'er  the  peaks 

Saddens  the  breasts  of  northward-looking  snows 

That  loved  the  night,  and  soared  with  soaring  stars  j 

Flashing  the  signals  of  his  nearing  swiftness 


6  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

From  Almeria's  purple-shadowed  bay 
On  to  the  far-off  rocks  that  gaze  and  glow- 
On  to  Alhambra,  strong  and  ruddy  heart 
Of  glorious  Morisma,  gasping  now, 
A  maime'd  giant  in  his  agony. 
This  town  that  dips  its  feet  within  the  stream, 
And  seems  to  sit  a  tower-crowned  Cybele 
Spreading  her  ample  robe  adown  the  rocks, 
Is  rich  Bedmar.  'twas  Moorish  long  ago, 
But  now  the  Cross  is  sparkling  on  the  Mosque, 
And  bells  make  Catholic  the  trembling  air. 
The  fortress  gleams  in  Spanish  sunshine  now 
('Tis  south  a  mile  before  the  rays  are  Moorish) — 
Hereditary  jewel,  agraffe  bright 
On  all  the  many-titled  privileges 
Of  young  Duke  Silva.     No  Castilian  knight 
That  serves  Queen  Isabel  has  higher  charge ; 
For  near  this  frontier  sits  the  Moorish  king, 
Not  Bobadil  the  waverer,  who  usurps 
A  throne  he  trembles  in,  and  fawning  licks 
The  feet  of  conquerors,  but  that  fierce  lion 
Grisly  El  Zagal,  who  has  made  his  lair 
In  Guadix'  fort,  and  rushing  thence  with  strength, 
Half  his  own  fierceness,  half  the  untainted  heart 
Of  mountain  bands  that  fight  for  holiday, 
Wastes  the  fair  lands  that  lie  by  Alcala, 
Wreathing  his  horse's  neck  with  Christian  heads. 

To  keep  the  Christian  frontier — such  high  trust 
Is  young  Duke  Silva' s;  and  the  time  is  great. 
(What  times  are  little?     To  the  sentinel 
That  hour  is  regal  when  he  mounts  on  guard.) 
The  fifteenth  century  since  the  Man  Divine 
Taught  and  was  hated  in  Capernaum 
Is  near  its  end — is  falling  as  a  husk 
Away  from  all  the  fruit  its  years  have  riped. 
The  Moslem  faith,  now  flickering  like  a  torch 
In  a  night  struggle  on  this  shore  of  Spain, 
Glares,  a  broad  column  of  advancing  flame, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Along  the  Danube  and  the  Illyrian  shore 

Far  into  Italy,  where  eager  monks, 

Who  watch  in  dreams  and  dream  the  while  they  watch, 

See  Christ  grow  paler  in  the  baleful  light, 

Crying  again  the  cry  of  the  forsaken. 

But  faith,  the  stronger  for  extremity, 

Becomes  prophetic,  hears  the  far-off  tread 

Of  western  chivalry,  sees  downward  sweep 

The  archangel  Michael  with  the  gleaming  sword, 

And  listens  for  the  shriek  of  hurrying  fiends 

Chased  from  their  revels  in  God's  sanctuary. 

So  trusts  the  monk,  and  lifts  appealing  eyes 

To  the  high  dome,  the  Church' s  firmament, 

Where  the  blue  light-pierced  curtain,  rolled  away, 

Reveals  the  throne  and  Him  who  sits  thereon. 

So  trust  the  men  whose  best  hope  for  the  world 

Is  ever  that  the  world  is  near  its  end : 

Impatient  of  the  stars  that  keep  their  course 

And  make  no  pathway  for  the  coming  Judge. 

But  other  futures  stir  the  world's  great  heart. 

The  West  now  enters  on  the  heritage 

Won  from  the  tombs  of  mighty  ancestors, 

The  seeds,  the  gold,  the  gems,  the  silent  harps 

That  lay  deep  buried  with  the  memories 

Of  old  renown. 

No  more,  as  once  in  sunny  Avignon, 

The  poet-scholar  spreads  the  Homeric  page, 

And  gazes  sadly,  like  the  deaf  at  song; 

For  now  the  old  epic  voices  ring  again 

And  vibrate  with  the  beat  and  melody 

Stirred  by  the  warmth  of  old  Ionian  days. 

The  martyred  sage,  the  Attic  orator, 

Immortally  incarnate,  like  the  gods, 

In  spiritual  bodies,  winged  words 

Holding  a  universe  impalpable, 

Find  a  new  audience.     For  evermore, 

With  grander  resurrection  than  was  feigned 

Qf  Attila's  fierce  Huns,  the  soul  of  Greece 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Conquers  the  bulk  of  Persia.     The  maimed  form 

Of  calmly-joyous  beauty,  marble-limbed, 

Yet  breathing  with  the  thought  that  shaped  its  lips, 

Looks  mild  reproach  from  out  its  open  grave 

At  creeds  of  terror ;  and  the  vine-wreathed  god 

Fronts  the  pierced  Image  with  the  crown  of  thorns 

The  soul  of  man  is  widening  toward  the  past : 

No  longer  hanging  at  the  breast  of  life 

Feeding  in  blindness  to  his  parentage — 

Quenching  all  wonder  with  Omnipotence, 

Praising  a  name  with  indolent  piety — 

He  spells  the  record  of  his  long  descent, 

More  largely  conscious  of  the  life  that  was. 

And  from  the  height  that  shows  where  morning  shone 

On  far-off  summits  pale  and  gloomy  now, 

The  horizon  widens  round  him,  and  the  west 

Looks  vast  with  untracked  waves  whereon  his  gaze 

Follows  the  flight  of  the  swift-vanished  bird 

That  like  the  sunken  sun  is  mirrored  still 

Upon  the  yearning  soul  within  the  eye. 

And  so  in  C<5rdova  through  patient  nights 

Columbus  watches,  or  he  sails  in  dreams 

Between  the  setting  stars  and  finds  new  day; 

Then  wakes  again  to  the  old  weary  days, 

Girds  on  the  cord  and  frock  of  pale  Saint  Francis, 

And  like  him  zealous  pleads  with  foolish  men. 

"  I  ask  but  for  a  million  maravedis : 

Give  me  three  caravels  to  find  a  world, 

New  shores,  new  realms,  new  soldiers  for  the  Cross. 

Son  cosas  grandes  !  "     Thus  he  pleads  in  vain ; 

Yet  faints  not  utterly,  but  pleads  anew, 

Thinking,  "God  means  it,  and  has  chosen  me." 

For  this  man  is  the  pulse  of  all  mankind 

Feeding  an  embryo  future,  offspring  strange 

Of  the  fond  Present,  that  with  mother-prayers 

And  mother-fancies  looks  for  championship 

Of  all  her  loved  beliefs  and  old-world  ways 

From  that  young  Time  she  bears  within  her  womb. 

The  sacred  places  shall  be  purged  again, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

The  Turk  converted,  and  the  Holy  Church, 
Like  the  mild  Virgin  with  the  outspread  robe, 
Shall  fold  all  tongues  and  nations  lovingly. 

But  since  God  works  by  armies,  who  shall  be 

The  modern  Cyrus?     Is  it  France  most  Christian, 

Who  with  his  lilies  and  brocaded  knights, 

French  oaths,  French  vices,  and  the  newest  style    . 

Of  out-puffed  sleeve,  shall  pass  from  west  to  east, 

A  winnowing  fan  to  purify  the  seed 

For  fair  millennial  harvests  soon  to  come? 

Or  is  not  Spain  the  land  of  chosen  warriors? — 

Crusaders  consecrated  from  the  womb, 

Carrying  the  sword-cross  stamped  upon  their  souls 

By  the  long  yearnings  of  a  nation's  life, 

Through  all  the  seven  patient  centuries 

Since  first  Pelayo  and  his  resolute  band 

Trusted  the  God  within  their  Gothic  hearts 

At  Covadunga,  and  defied  Mahound; 

Beginning  so  the  Holy  War  of  Spain 

That  now  is  panting  with  the  eagerness 

Of  labor  near  its  end.     The  silver  cross 

Glitters  o'er  Malaga  and  streams  dread  light 

On  Moslem  galleys,  turning  all  their  stores 

From  threats  to  gifts.     What  Spanish  knight  is  he 

Who,  living  now,  holds  it  not  shame  to  live 

Apart  from  that  hereditary  battle 

Which  needs  his  sword?     Castilian  gentlemen 

Choose  not  their  task — they  choose  to  do  it  well. 

The  time  is  great,  and  greater  no  man's  trust 
Than  his  who  keeps  the  fortress  for  his  king, 
Wearing  great  honors  as  some  delicate  robe 
Brocaded  o'er  with  names  'twere  sin  to  tarnish. 
Born  de  la  Cerda,  Calatravan  knight, 
Count  of  Segura,  fourth  Duke  of  Bedmir, 
Offshoot  from  that  high  stock  of  old  Castile 
Whose  topmost  branch  is  proud  Medina  Cell — 
Such  titles  with  their  blazonry  are  his 


10  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Who  keeps  this  fortress,  its  sworn  governor, 
Lord  of  the  valley,  master  of  the  town, 
Commanding  whom  he  will,  himself  commanded 
By  Christ  his  Lord  who  sees  him  from  the  Cross 
And  from  bright  heaven  where  the  Mother  pleads ;- 
By  good  Saint  James  upon  the  milk-white  steed, 
Who  leaves  his  bliss  to  fight  for  chosen  Spain; — 
By  the  dead  gaze  of  all  his  ancestors ; — 
And  by  the  mystery  of  his  Spanish  blood 
Charged  with  the  awe  and  glories  of  the  past. 

See  now  with  soldiers  in  his  front  and  rear 
He  winds  at  evening  through  the  narrow  streets 
That  toward  the  Castle  gate  climb  devious : 
His  charger,  of  fine  Andalusian  stock, 
An  Indian  beauty,  black -but  delicate, 
Is  conscious  of  the  herald  trumpet  note, 
The  gathering  glances,  and  familiar  ways 
That  lead  fast  homeward :  she  forgets  fatigue, 
And  at  the  light  touch  of  the  master's  spur 
Thrills  with  the  zeal  to  bear  him  royally, 
Arches  her  neck  and  clambers  up  the  stones 
As  if  disdainful  of  the  difficult  steep. 
Night-black  the  charger,  black  the  rider's  plume, 
But  all  between  is  bright  with  morning  hues — 
Seems  ivory  and  gold  and  deep  blue  gems, 
And  starry  flashing  steel  and  pale  vermilion, 
All  set  in  jasper:  on  his  surcoat  white 
Glitter  the  sword-belt  and  the  jewelled  hilt, 
Bed  on  the  back  and  breast  the  holy  cross, 
And  'twixt  the  helmet  and  the  soft-spun  white 
Thick  tawny  wavelets  like  the  lion's  mane 
Turn  backward  from  his  brow,  pale,  wide,  erect, 
Shadowing  blue  eyes — blue  as  the  rain-washed  sky 
That  braced  the  early  stem  of  Gothic  kings 
He  claims  for  ancestry.     A  goodly  knight, 
A  noble  caballero,  broad  of  chest 
And  long  of  limb.     So  much  the  August  sun, 
Xow  in  the  west  but  shooting  half  its  beams 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  11 

Past  a  dark  rocky  profile  toward  the  plain, 

At  windings  of  the  path  across  the  slope 

Makes  suddenly  luminous  for  all  who  see : 

For  women  smiling  from  the  terraced  roofs ; 

For  boys  that  prone  on  trucks  with  head  up-propped 

Lazy  and  curious,  stare  irreverent; 

For  men  who  make  obeisance  with  degrees 

Of  good-will  shading  toward  servility, 

Where-good-will  ends  and  secret  fear  begins 

And  curses,  too,  low-muttered  through  the  teeth, 

Explanatory  to  the  God  of  Shein. 

Five,  grouped  within  a  whitened  tavern  court 
Of  Moorish  fashion,  where  the  trellised  vines 
Purpling  above  their  heads  made  odorous  shade, 
Note  through  the  open  door  the  passers-by, 
Getting  some  rills  of  novelty  to  speed 
The  lagging  stream  of  talk  and  help  the  wine. 
"Tis  Christian  to  drink  wine :  whoso  denies 
His  flesh  at  bidding  save  of  Holy  Church, 
Let  him  beware  and  take  to  Christian  sins 
Lest  he  be  taxed  with  Moslem  sanctity. 

The  souls  are  five,  the  talkers  only  three. 

(No  time,  most  tainted  by  wrong  faith  and  rule, 

But  holds  some  listeners  and  dumb  animals.) 

MINE  HOST  is  one :  he  with  the  well-arched  nose, 

Soft-eyed,  fat-handed,  loving  men  for  nought 

But  his  own  humor,  patting  old  and  young 

Upon  the  back,  and  mentioning  the  cost 

With  confidential  blandness,  as  a  tax 

That  he  collected  much  against  his  will. 

From  Spaniards  who  were  all  his  bosom  friends: 

Warranted  Christian — else  how  keep  an  inn, 

Which  calling  asks  true  faith?  though  like  his  wine 

Of  cheaper  sort,  a  trifle  over-new. 

His  father  was  a  convert,  chose  the  chrism 

As  men  choose  physic,  kept  his  chimney  warm 

With  smokiest  wood  upon  a  Saturday, 


12  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Counted  his  gains  and  grudges  on  a  chaplet, 

And  crossed  himself  asleep  for  fear  of  spies; 

Trusting  the  God  of  Israel  would  see 

'Twas  Christian  tyranny  that  made  him  base". 

Our  host  his  son  was  born  ten  years  too  soon, 

Had  heard  his  mother  call  him  Ephraim, 

Knew  holy  things  from  common,  thought  it  sin 

To  feast  on  days  when  Israel's  children  mourned, 

So  had  to  be  converted  with  his  sire, 

To  doff  the  awe  he  learned  as  Ephraim, 

And  suit  his  manners  to  a  Christian  name. 

But  infant  awe,  that  unborn  moving  thing, 

Dies  with  what  nourished  it,  can  never  rise 

From  the  dead  womb  and  walk  and  seek  new  pasture. 

Thus  baptism  seemed  to  him  a  merry  game 

Not  tried  before,  all  sacraments  a  mode 

Of  doing  homage  for  one's  property, 

And  all  religions  a  queer  human  whim 

Or  else  a  vice,  according  to  degrees : 

As,  'tis  a  whim  to  like  your  chestnuts  hot, 

Burn  your  own  mouth  and  draw  your  face  awry, 

A  vice  to  pelt  frogs  with  them — animals 

Content  to  take  life  coolly.     And  Lorenzo 

Would  have  all  lives  made  easy,  even  lives 

Of  spiders  and  inquisitors,  yet  still 

Wishing  so  well  to  flies  and  Moors  and  Jews 

He  rather  wished  the  others  easy  death; 

For  loving  all  men  clearly  was  deferred 

Till  all  men  loved  each  other.     Such  mine  Host, 

With  chiselled  smile  caressing  Seneca, 

The  solemn  mastiff  leaning  on  his  knee. 

His  right-hand  guest  is  solemn  as  the  dog, 

Square-faced  and  massive :  BLASCO  is  his  name, 

A  prosperous  silversmith  from  Aragon ; 

In  speech  not  silvery,  rather  tuned  as  notes 

From  a  deep  vessel  made  of  plenteous  iron, 

Or  some  great  bell  of  slow  but  certain  swing 

That,  if  you  only  wait,  will  tell  the  hour 

As  well  as  flippant  clocks  that  strike  in  haste 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  13 

And  set  off  chiming  a  superfluous  tnine — 

Like  JUAN  there,  the  spare  man  with  the  lute, 

Who  makes  you  dizzy  with  his  rapid  tongue, 

Whirring  athwart  your  mind  with  comment  swift 

On  speech  you  would  have  finished  by  and  by, 

Shooting  your  bird  for  you  while  you  are  loading, 

Cheapening  your  wisdom  as  a  pattern  known, 

Woven  by  any  shuttle  on  demand. 

Can  never  sit  quite  still,  too :  sees  a  wasp 

And  kills  it  with  a  movement  like  a  flash ; 

Whistles  low  notes  or  seems  to  thrum  his  lute 

As  a  mere  hyphen  'twixt  two  syllables 

Of  any  steadier  man ;  walks  up  and  down 

And  snuffs  the  orange  flowers  and  shoots  a  pea 

To  hit  a  streak  of  light  let  through  the  awning. 

Has  a  queer  face :  eyes  large  as  plums,  a  nose 

Small,  round,  uneven,  like  a  bit  of  wax 

Melted  and  cooled  by  chance.     Thin-fingered,  lithe, 

And  as  a  squirrel  noiseless,  startling  men 

Only  by  quickness.     In  his  speech  and  look 

A  touch  of  graceful  wildness,  as  of  things 

Not  trained  or  tamed  for  uses  of  the  world ; 

Most  like  the  Fauns  that  roamed  in  days  of  old 

About  the  listening  whispering  woods,  and  shared 

The  subtler  sense  of  sylvan  ears  and  eyes 

Undulled  by  scheming  thought,  yet  joined  the  rout 

Of  men  and  women  on  the  festal  days, 

And  played  the  syrinx  too,  and  knew  love's  pains, 

Turning  their  anguish  into  melody. 

For  Juan  was  a  minstrel  still,  in  times 

When  minstrelsy  was  held  a  thing  outworn. 

Spirits  seem  buried  and  their  epitaph 

Is  writ  in  Latin  by  severest  pens, 

Yet  still  they  flit  above  the  trodden  grave 

And  find  new  bodies,  animating  them 

In  quaint  and  ghostly  way  with  antique  souls. 

So  Juan  was  a  troubadour  revived, 

Freshening  life's  dusty  road  with  babbling  rills 

Of  wit  and  song,  living  'mid  harnessed  men 


14  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

With  limbs  ungalled  by  armor,  ready  so 

To  soothe  them  weary,  and  to  cheer  them  sad. 

Guest  at  the  board,  companion  in  the  camp, 

A  crystal  mirror  to  the  life  around, 

Flashing  the  comment  keen  of  simple  fact 

Defined  in  words;  lending  brief  lyric  voice 

To  grief  and  sadness ;  hardly  taking  note 

Of  difference  betwixt  his  own  and  others' ; 

But  rather  singing  as  a  listener 

To  the  deep  moans,  the  cries,  the  wild  strong  joys 

Of  universal  Xature,  old  yet  young. 

Such  Juan,  the  third  talker,  shimmering  bright 

As  butterfly  or  bird  with  quickest  life. 

The  silent  ROLDAN  has  his  brightness  too, 

But  only  in  his  spangles  and  rosettes. 

His  parti-colored  vest  and  crimson  hose 

Are  dulled  with  old  Valencian  dust,  his  eyes 

With  straining  fifty  years  at  gilded  balls 

To  catch  them  dancing,  or  with  brazen  looks 

At  men  and  women  as  he  made  his  jests 

Some  thousand  times  and  watched  to  count  the  pence 

His  wife  was  gathering.     His  olive  face 

Has  an  old  writing  in  it,  characters 

Stamped  deep  by  grins  that  had  no  merriment, 

The  soul's  rude  mark  proclaiming  all  its  blank; 

As  on  some  faces  that  have  long  grown  old 

In  lifting  tapers  up  to  forms  obscene 

On  ancient  walls  and  chuckling  with  false  zest 

To  please  my  lord,  who  gives  the  larger  fee 

For  that  hard  industry  in  apishness. 

Boldan  would  gladly  never  laugh  again; 

Pensioned,  he  would  be  grave  as  any  ox, 

And  having  beans  and  crumbs  and  oil  secured 

Would  borrow  no  man's  jokes  for  evermore. 

'Tis  harder  now  because  his  wife  is  gone, 

Who  had  quick  feet,  and  danced  to  ravishment 

Of  every  ring  jewelled  with  Spanish  eyes, 

But  died  and  left  this  boy,  lame  from  his  birth, 

And  sad  and  obstinate,  though  when  he  will 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  15 

He  sings  God-taught  such  marrow-thrilling  strains 
As  seem  the  very  voice  of  dying  Spring, 
A  flute-like  wail  that  mourns  the  blossoms  gone, 
And  sinks,  and  is  not,  like  their  fragrant  breath, 
With  fine  transition  on  the  trembling  air. 
He  sits  as  if  imprisoned  by  some  fear, 
Motionless,  with  wide  eyes  that  seem  not  made 
For  hungry  glancing  of  a  twelve-year'd  boy 
To  mark  the  living  thing  that  he  could  tease, 
But  for  the  gaze  of  some  primeval  sadness 
Dark  twin  with  light  in  the  creative  ray. 
This  little  PABLO-  has  his  spangles  too, 
And  large  rosettes  to  hide  his  poor  left  foot 
Bounded  like  any  hoof  (his  mother  thought 
God  willed  it  so  to  punish  all  her  sins). 

I  said  the  souls  were  five — besides  the  dog. 

But  there  was  still  a  sixth,  with  wrinkled  face, 

Grave  and  disgusted  with  all  merriment 

Not  less  than  Roldan.     It  is  ANXIBAL, 

The  experienced  monkey  who  performs  the  tricks, 

Jumps  through  the  hoops,  and  carries  round  the  hat. 

Once  full  of  sallies  and  impromptu  feats, 

Now  cautious  not  to  light  on  aught  that's  new, 

Lest  he  be  whipped  to  do  it  o'er  again 

From  A  to  Z,  and  make  the  gentry  laugh : 

A  misanthropic  monkey,  gray  and  grim, 

Bearing  a  lot  that  has  no  remedy 

For  want  of  concert  in  the  monkey  tribe. 

We  see  the  company,  above  their  heads 
The  braided  matting,  golden  as  ripe  corn, 
Stretched  in  a  curving  strip  close  by  the  grapes, 
Elsewhere  rolled  back  to  greet  the  cooler  sky ; 
A  fountain  near,  vase-shapen  and  broad-lipped, 
Where  timorous  birds  alight  with  tiny  feet, 
And  hesitate  and  bend  wise  listening  ears, 
And  fly  away  again  with  undipped  beak. 
On  the  stone  floor  the  juggler's  heaped-up  goods, 


16  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Carpet  and  hoops,  viol  and  tambourine, 
Where  Annibal  sits  perched  with  brows  severe, 
A  serious  ape  whom  nxme  take  seriously, 
Obliged  in  this  fool's  world  to  earn  his  nuts 
By  hard  buffoonery.     We  see  them  all, 
And  hear  their  talk — the  talk  of  Spanish  men, 
With  Southern  intonation,  vowels  turned 
Caressingly  between  the  consonants, 
Persuasive,  willing,  with  such  intervals 
As  music  borrows  from  the  wooing  birds, 
That  plead  with  subtly  curving,  sweet  descent — 
And  yet  can  quarrel,  as  these  Spaniards  can. 

JUAN  (near  the  doorway). 

You  hear  the  trumpet?     There's  old  Eamon's  blast 

No  bray  but  his  can  shake  the  air  so  well. 

He  takes  his  trumpeting  as  solemnly 

As  angel  charged  to  wake  the  dead;  thinks  war 

Was  made  for  trumpeters,  and  their  great  art 

Made  solely  for  themselves  who  understand  it. 

His  features  all  have  shaped  themselves  to  blowing, 

And  when  his  trumpet's  bagged  or  left  at  home 

He  seems  a  chattel  in  a  broker's  booth, 

A  spoutless  watering-can,  a  promise  to  pay 

No  sum  particular.     0  fine  old  Ramon! 

The  blasts  get  louder  and  the  clattering  hoofs ; 

They  crack  the  ear  as  well  as  heaven's  thunder 

For  owls  that  listen  blinking.     There's  the  banner. 

HOST  (joining  him :  the  others  follow  to  the  door). 

The  Duke  has  finished  reconnoitring,  then? 
We  shall  hear  news.     They  say  he  means  a  sally — 
Would  strike  El  Zagal's  Moors  as  they  push  home 
Like  ants  with  booty  heavier  than  themselves; 
Then,  joined  by  other  nobles  with  their  bands, 
Lay  siege  to  Guadix.     Juan,  you're  a  bird 
That  nest  within  the  Castle.     What  say  you? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  17 


JUAN. 

Nought,  I  say  nought.     "Tis  but  a  toilsome  game 

To  bet  upon  that  feather  Policy, 

And  guess  where  after  twice  a  hundred  puffs 

'Twill  catch  another  feather  crossing  it: 

Guess  how  the  Pope  will  blow  and  how  the  king; 

What  force  my  lady's  fan  has;  how  a  cough 

Seizing  the  Padre's  throat  may  raise  a  gust, 

And  how  the  queen  may  sigh  the  feather  down. 

Such  catching  at  imaginary  threads, 

Such  spinning  twisted  air,  is  not  for  me. 

If  I  should  want  a  game,  I'll  rather  bet 

On  racing  snails,  two  large,  slow,  lingering  snails — - 

No  spurring,  equal  weights — a  chance  sublime, 

Nothing  to  guess  at,  pure  uncertainty. 

Here  comes  the  Duke.     They  give  but  feeble  shouts. 

And  some  look  sour. 

HOST. 

That  spoils  a  fair  occasion. 
Civility  brings  no  conclusions  with  it, 
And  cheerful  Vivas  make  the  moments  glide 
Instead  of  grating  like  a  rusty  wheel, 

JUAN. 

0  they  are  dullards,  kick  because  they're  stung, 
And  bruise  a  friend  to  show  they  hate  a  wasp. 

HOST. 

Best  treat  your  wasp  with  delicate  regard ; 
When  the  right  moment  comes  say,  "  By  your  leave, " 
Use  your  heel — so !  and  make  an  end  of  him. 
That's  if  we  talked  of  wasps ;  but  our  young  Duke — 
Spain  holds  not  a  more  gallant  gentleman. 
Live,  live  Duke  Silva!     'Tis  a  rare  smile  he  has, 
But  seldom  seen. 
2 


18  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


JUAN. 

A  true  hidalgo's  smile, 
That  gives  much  favor,  but  beseeches  none. 
His  smile  is  sweetened  by  his  gravity  : 
It  comes  like  dawn  upon  Sierra  snows, 
Seeming  more  generous  for  the  coldness  gone ; 
Breaks  from  the  calm — a  sudden  opening  flower 
On  dark  deep  waters :  now  a  chalice  shut, 
A  mystic  shrine,  the  next  a  full-rayed  star, 
Thrilling,  pulse-quickening  as  a  living  word. 
I'll  make  a  song  of  that. 

HOST. 

Prithee,  not  now. 

You'll  fall  to  staring  like  a  wooden  saint, 
And  wag  your  head  as  it  were  set  on  wires. 
Here's  fresh  sherbet.     Sit,  be  good  company. 
(To  BLASCO)  You  are  a  stranger,  sir,  and  cannot  know 
How  our  Duke's  nature  suits  his  princely  frame. 

BLASCO. 

Nay,  but  I  marked  his  spurs — chased  cunningly ! 

A  duke  should  know  good  gold  and  silver  plate; 

Then  he  will  know  the  quality  of  mine. 

I've  ware  for  tables  and  for  altars  too, 

Our  Lady  in  all  sizes,  crosses,  bells : 

He'll  need  such  weapons  full  as  much  as  swords 

If  he  would  capture  any  Moorish  town. 

For,  let  me  tell  you,  when  a  mosque  is  cleansed  .   .  . 

JUAN. 

The  demons  fly  so  thick  from  sound  of  bells 

And  smell  of  incense,  you  may  see  the  air 

Streaked  with    them  as  with    smoke.     Why,   they    are 

spirits : 

You  may  well  think  how  crowded  they  must  be 
To  make  a  sort  of  haze. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  19 

BLASCO. 

I  knew  not  that. 

Still,  they're  of  smoky  nature,  demons  are; 
And  since  you  say  so — well,  it  proves  the  more 
The  need  of  bells  and  censers.     Ay,  your  Duke 
Sat  well :  a  true  hidalgo.     I  can  judge — 
Of  harness  specially.     I  saw  the  camp, 
The  royal  camp  at  Velez  Malaga. 
'Twas  like  the  court  of  heaven — such  liveries! 
And  torches  carried  by  the  score  at  night 
Before  the  nobles.      Sirs,  I  made  a  dish 
To  set  an  emerald  in  would  fit  a  crown, 
For  Don  Alonzo,  lord  of  Aguilar. 
Your  Duke's  no  whit  behind  him  in  his  mien 
Or  harness  either.     But  you  seem  to  say 
The  people  love  him  not. 

HOST. 

They've  nought  against  him. 
But  certain  winds  will  make  men's  temper  bad. 
When  the  Solano  blows  hot  venomed  breath, 
It  acts  upon  men's  knives :  steel  takes  to  stabbing 
Which  else,  with  cooler  winds,  were  honest  steel, 
Cutting  but  garlick.     There's  a  wind  just  now 
Blows  right  from  Seville — 

BLASCO. 

Ay,  you  mean  the  wind  .  .   . 
Yes,  yes,  a  wind  that's  rather  hot  .  .  . 

HOST. 

With  fagots. 
JUAN. 

A  wind  that  suits  not  with  our  townsmen's  blood. 
Abram,  'tis  said,  objected  to  be  scorched, 
And,  as  the  learned  Arabs  vouch,  he  gave 
The  antipathy  in  full  to  Ishmael. 
'Tis  true,  these  patriarchs  had  their  oddities. 


20  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


BLASCO. 

Their  oddities?     I'm  of  their  mind,  I  know. 

Though,  as  to  Abraham  and  Ishmael, 

I'm  an  old  Christian,  and  owe  nought  to  them 

Or  any  Jew  among  them.     But  I  know 

We  made  a  stir  in  Saragossa — we : 

The  men  of  Aragon  ring  hard — true  metal. 

Sirs,  I'm  no  friend  to  heresy,  but  then 

A  Christian's  money  is  not  safe.     As  how? 

A  lapsing  Jew  or  any  heretic 

May  owe  me  twenty  ounces :  suddenly 

He's  prisoned,  suffers  penalties — 'tis  well: 

If  men  will  not  believe,  'tis  good  to  make  them, 

But  let  the  penalties  fall  on  them  alone. 

The  Jew  is  stripped,  his  goods  are  confiscate; 

Now,  where,  I  pray  you,  go  my  twenty  ounces? 

God  knows,  and  perhaps  the  King  may,  but  not  I. 

And  more,  my  son  may  lose  his  young  wife's  dower 

Because  'twas  promised  since  her  father's  soul 

Fell  to  wrong  thinking.     How  was  I  to  know? 

I  could  but  use  my  sense  and  cross  myself. 

Christian  is  Christian — I  give  in — but  still 

Taxing  is  taxing,  though  you  call  it  holy. 

We  Saragossans  liked  not  this  new  tax 

They  call  the — nonsense,  I'm  from  Aragon! 

I  speak  too  bluntly.     But,  for  Holy  Church, 

No  man  believes  more. 

HOST. 

Nay,  sir,  never  fear! 
Good  Master  Koldan  here  is  no  delator. 

HOLD  AN  (starting  from  a  reverie). 

You  speak  to  me,  sirs?    I  perform  to-night — 
The  Pla^a  Santiago.     Twenty  tricks, 
All  different.     I  dance,  too.     And  the  boy 
Sings  like  a  bird.    I  crave  your  patronage. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  21 

BLASCO. 

Faith,  you  shall  have  it,  sir.     In  travelling 
I  take  a  little  freedom,  and  am  gay. 
You  marked  not  what  I  said  just  now? 

EOLDAN. 

I?  no. 

I  pray  your  pardon.     I've  a  twinging  knee, 
That  makes  it  hard  to  listen.     You  were  saying? 

BLASCO. 
Nay,  it  was  nought.     (Aside  to  HOST)  Is  it  his  deepness? 

HOST. 

No. 
He's  deep  in  nothing  but  his  poverty. 

BLASCO. 
But  'twas  his  poverty  that  made  me  think  .  •  * 

HOST. 

His  piety  might  wish  to  keep  the  feasts 
As  well  as  fasts.     No  fear ;  he  hears  not. 

BLASCO. 

Good* 

J  speak  my  mind  about  the  penalties, 

But,  look  you,  I'm  against  assassination. 

You  know  my  meaning— Master  Arbue's, 

The  grand  Inquisitor  in  Aragon. 

I  knew  nought — paid  no  copper  toward  the  deed. 

But  1  was  there,  at  prayers,  within  the  church. 

How  could  I  help  it?     Why,  the  saints  were  there, 

And  looked  straight  on  above  the  altars.     I  ... 

JUAN. 
Looked  carefully  another  way. 


22  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

BLASCO. 

Why,  at  my  beads. 

'Twas  after  midnight,  and  the  canons  all 
Were  chanting  matins.     I  was  not  in  church 
To  gape  and  stare.     I  saw  the  martyr  kneel : 
I  never  liked  the  look  of  him  alive — 
He  was  no  martyr  then.     I  thought  he  made 
An  ugly  shadow  as  he  crept  athwart 
The  bands  of  light,  then  passed  within  the  gloom 
By  the  broad  pillar.      'Twas  in  our  great  Seo, 
At  Saragossa.      The  pillars  tower  so  large 
You  cross  yourself  to  see  them,  lest  white  Death 
Should  hide  behind  their  back.     And  so  it  was. 
I  looked  away  again  and  told  my  beade 
Unthinkingly ;  but  still  a  man  has  ears ; 
And  right  across  the  chanting  came  a  sound 
As  if  a  tree  had  crashed  above  the  roar 
Of  some  great  torrent.      So  it  seemed  to  me ; 
For  when  you  listen  long  and  shut  your  eyes 
Small  sounds  get  thunderous.     He  had  a  shell 
Like  any  lobster :   a  good  iron  suit 
From  top  to  toe  beneath  the  innocent  serge. 
That  made  the  tell-tale  souud.     But  then  came  shrieks. 
The  chanting  stopped  and  turned  to  rushing  feet, 
And  in  the  midst  lay  Master  Arbues, 
Felled  like  an  ox.     'Twas  wicked  butchery. 
Some  honest  men  had  hoped  it  would  have  scared 
The  Inquisition  out  of  Aragon. 
'Twas  money  thrown  away — I  would  say,  crime — • 
Clean  thrown  away. 

HOST. 

That  was  a  pity  now. 

Next  to  a  missing  thrust,  what  irks  me  most 
Is  a  neat  well-aimed  stroke  that  kills  your  man, 
Yet  ends  in  mischief — as  in  Aragon. 
It  was  a  lesson  to  our  people  here. 
Else  there's  a  monk  within  our  city  walls, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  \ 

A  holy,  high-born,  stern  Dominican, 

They  might  have  made  the  great  mistake  to  kill. 

BLASCO. 
What!  is  he?  ... 

HOST. 

Yes ;  a  Master  Arbues 
Of  finer  quality.     The  Prior  here 
And  uncle  to  our  Duke. 

BLASCO. 

He  will  want  plate : 
A  holy  pillar  or  a  crucifix. 
But,  did  you  say,  he  was  like  Arbue's? 

JUAN. 

As  a  black  eagle  with  gold  beak  and  claws 

Is  like  a  raven.     Even  in  his  cowl, 

Covered  from  head  to  foot,  the  Prior  is  known 

From  all  the  black  herd  round.     When  he  uncovers 

And  stands  white-frocked,  with  ivory  face,  his  eyes 

Black-gleaming,  black  his  coronal  of  hair 

Like  shredded  jasper,  he  seems  less  a  man 

With  struggling  aims,  than  pure  incarnate  Will, 

Fit  to  subdue  rebellious  nations,  nay, 

That  human  flesh  he  breathes  in,  charged  with  passion 

Which  quivers  in  his  nostril  and  his  lip, 

But  disciplined  by  long  in-dwelling  will 

To  silent  labor  in  the  yoke  of  law. 

A  truce  to  thy  comparisons,  Lorenzo! 

Thine  is  no  subtle  nose  for  difference; 

'Tis  dulled  by  feigning  and  civility. 

HOST. 

Pooh,  thou'rt  a  poet,  crazed  with  finding  words 
May  stick  to  things  and  seem  like  qualities. 
No  pebble  is  a  pebble  in  thy  hands : 


24  POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

'Tis  a  moon  out  of  work,  a  barren  egg, 

Or  twenty  things  that  no  man  sees  but  thee. 

Our  Father  Isidor's — a  living  saint, 

And  that  is  heresy,  some  townsmen  think: 

Saints  should  be  dead,  according  to  the  Church. 

My  mind  is  this :  the  Father  is  so  holy 

'Twere  sin  to  wish  his  soul  detained  from  bliss.    . 

Easy  translation  to  the  Tealms  above, 

The  shortest  journey  to  the  seventh  heaven, 

Is  what  I'd  never  grudge  him. 

BLASCO. 

Piously  said. 

Look  you,  I'm  dutiful,  obey  the  Church 
When  there's  no  help  for  it:  I  mean  to  say, 
When  Pope  and  Bishop  and  all  customers 
Order  alike.     But  there  be  bishops  now, 
And  were  aforetime,  who  have  held  it  wrong, 
This  hurry  to  convert  the  Jews.     As  how? 
Your  Jew  pays  tribute  to  the  bishop,  say. 
That's  good,  and  must  please  God,  to  see  the  Church 
Maintained  in  ways  that  ease  the  Christian's  purse. 
Convert  the  Jew,  and  where's  the  tribute,  pray? 
He  lapses,  too:  'tis  slippery  work,  conversion: 
And  then  the  holy  taxing  carries  off 
His  money  at  one  sweep.     No  tribute  morel 
He's  penitent  or  burnt,  and  there's  an  end. 
Now  guess  which  pleases  God  .  .  . 

JUAN. 

Whether  he  likes 
A  well-burnt  Jew  or  well-fed  bishop  best. 

[While  Juan  put  this  problem  theologic 
Entered,  with  resonant  step,  another  guest — 
A  soldier :  all  his  keenness  in  his  sword, 
His  eloquence  in  scars  upon  his  cheek, 
His  virtue  in  much  slaying  of  the  Moor : 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  25 

With  brow  well-creased  in  horizontal  folds 
To  save  the  space,  as  having  nought  to  do : 
Lips  prone  to  whistle  whisperingly — no  tune, 
But  trotting  rhythm :  meditative  eyes, 
Most  often  fixed  upon  his  legs  and  spurs: 
Styled  Captain  Lopez.] 

LOPEZ. 

At  your  service,  sirs. 

JUAN. 

Ha,  Lopez?     Why,  thou  hast  a  face  full-charged 
As  any  herald's.     What  news  of  the  wars? 

LOPEZ. 
Such  news  as  is  most  bitter  on  my  tongue. 

JUAN. 

Then  spit  it  forth. 

HOST. 

Sit,  Captain:  here's  a  cup, 
Fresh-filled.     What  news? 

LOPEZ. 

'Tis  bad.     We  make  no  sally: 
We  sit  still  here  and  wait  whate'er  the  Moor 
Shall  please  to  do. 

HOST. 

Some  townsmen  will  be  glad. 

LOPEZ. 

Glad,  will  they  be?    But  I'm  not  glad,  not  I, 
Nor  any  Spanish  soldier  of  clean  blood. 
But  the  Duke's  wisdom  is  to  wait  a  siege 
Instead  of  laying  one.     Therefore — meantime — 
He  will  be  married  straightway. 


26  POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

HOST. 

Ha,  ha,  ha! 

Thy  speech  is  like  an  hourglass;  turn  it  down 
The  other  way,  'twill  stand  as  well,  and  say 
The  Duke  will  wed,  therefore  he  waits  a  siege. 
But  what  say  Don  Diego  and  the  Prior? 
The  holy  uncle  and  the  fiery  Don? 

LOPEZ. 

0  there  be  sayings  running  all  abroad 

As  thick  as  nuts  o'erturned.     No  man  need  lack. 
Some  say,  'twas  letters  changed  the  Duke's  intent: 
From  Malaga,  says  Bias.     From  Rome,  says  Quintin. 
From  spies  at  Guadix,  says  Sebastian. 
Some  say,  'tis  all  a  pretext — say,  the  Duke 
Is  but  a  lapdog  hanging  on  a  skirt, 
Turning  his  eyeballs  upward  like  a  monk: 
'Twas  Don  Diego  said  that — so  says  Bias; 
Last  week,  he  said  .   .  . 

JUAN. 

0  do  without  the  "  said  " ! 
Open  thy  mouth  and  pause  in  lieu  of  it. 

1  had  as  lief  be  pelted  with  a  pea 
Irregularly  in  the  self -same  spot 
As  hear  such  iteration  without  rule, 
Such  torture  of  uncertain  certainty. 

LOPEZ. 

Santiago!  Juan,  thou  art  hard  to  please. 
I  speak  not  for  my  own  delighting,  I. 
I  can  be  silent,  I. 

BLASCO. 

Nay,  sir,  speak  on ! 

I  like  your  matter  well.     I  deal  in  plate. 
This  wedding  touches  me.     Who  is  the  bride? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  27 

LOPEZ. 

One  that  some  say  the  Duke  does  ill  to  wed. 

One  that  his  mother  reared — God  rest  her  soull— 

Duchess  Diana — she  who  died  last  year. 

A  bird  picked  up  away  from  any  nest. 

Her  name — the  Duchess  gave  it — is  Fedalma. 

No  harm  in  that.     But  the  Duke  stoops,  they  say, 

In  wedding  her.     And  that's  the  simple  truth. 

JUAN. 

Thy  simple  truth  is  but  a  false  opinion: 
The  simple  truth  of  asses  who  believe 
Their  thistle  is  the  very  best  of  food. 
Pie,  Lopez,  thou  a  Spaniard  with  a  sword 
Dreamest  a  Spanish  noble  ever  stoops 
By  doing  honor  to  the  maid  he  loves! 
He  stoops  alone  when  he  dishonors  her. 

LOPEZ. 
Nay,  I  said  nought  against  her. 

JUAN. 

Better  not. 

Else  I  would  challenge  thee  to  fight  with  wits, 
And  spear  thee  through  and  through  ere  thou  couldst  draw 
The  bluntest  word.     Yes,  yes,  consult  thy  spurs : 
Spurs  are  a  sign  of  knighthood,  and  should  tell  thee 
That  knightly  love  is  blent  with  reverence 
As  heavenly  air  is  blent  with  heavenly  blue. 
Don  Silva's  heart  beats  to  a  loyal  tune: 
He  wills  no  highest-born  Castilian  dame, 
Betrothed  to  highest  noble,  should  be  held 
More  sacred  than  Fedalma.     He  enshrines 
Her  virgin  image  for  the  general  awe 
And  for  his  own — will  guard  her  from  the  world, 
Nay,  his  profaner  self,  lest  he  should  lose 
The  place  of  his  religion.     He  does  well. 
Nought  can  come  closer  to  the  poet's  strain. 


28  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

HOST. 

Or  farther  from  his  practice,  Juan,  eh? 
If  thou'rt  a  sample? 

JUAN. 

Wrong  there,  my  Lorenzo 
Touching  Fedalma  the  poor  poet  plays 
A  finer  part  even  than  the  noble  Duke. 

LOPEZ. 

-By  making  ditties,  singing  with  round  mouth 
Likest  a  crowing  cock?     Thou  meanest  that? 

JUAN. 

Lopez,  take  physic,  thou  art  getting  ill, 
Growing  descriptive;  'tis  unnatural. 
I  mean,  Don  Silva's  love  expects  reward, 
Kneels  with  a  heaven  to  come ;  but  the  poor  poet 
Worships  without  reward,  nor  hopes  to  rind 
A  heaven  save  in  his  worship.     He  adores 
The  sweetest  woman  for  her  sweetness'  sake, 
Joys  in  the  love  that  was  not  born  for  him, 
Because  'tis  lovingness,  as  beggars  joy, 
Warming  their  naked  limbs  on  wayside  walls, 
To  hear  a  tale  of  princes  and  their  glory. 
There's  a  poor  poet  (poor,  I  mean,  in  coin) 
Worships  Fedalma  with  so  true  a  love 
That  if  her  silken  robe  were  changed  for  rags, 
And  she  were  driven  out  to  stony  wilds 
Barefoot,  a  scorned  wanderer,  he  would  kiss 
Her  ragged  garment's  edge,  and  only  ask 
For  leave  to  be  her  slave.     Digest  that,  friend, 
Or  let  it  lie  upon  thee  as  a  weight 
To  check  light  thinking  of  Fedalma. 

LOPEZ. 

I? 

I  think  no  harm  of  her ;  I  thank  the  saints 
I  wear  a  sword  and  peddle  not  in  thinking. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

'Tis  Father  Marcos  says  she'll  not  confess 
And  loves  not  holy  water ;  says  her  blood 
Is  infidel;  says  the  Duke's  wedding  her 
Is  union  of  light  with  darkness. 

JUAN. 

Tush  I 

[Now  Juan — who  by  snatches  touched  his  lute 

With  soft  arpeggio,  like  a  whispered  dream 

Of  sleeping  music,  while  he  spoke  of  love — 

In  jesting  anger  at  the  soldier's  talk 

Thrummed  loud  and  fast,  then  faster  and  more  loud, 

Till,  as  he  answered  "  Tush !  "  he  struck  a  chord " 

Sudden  as  whip-crack  close  by  Lopez'  ear. 

Mine  host  and  Blasco  smiled,  the  mastiff  barked, 

Eoldan  looked  up  and  Annibal  looked  down, 

Cautiously  neutral  in  so  new  a  case ; 

The  boy  raised  longing,  listening  eyes  that  seemed 

An  exiled  spirit's  waiting  in  strained  hope 

Of  voices  coming  from  the  distant  land. 

But  Lopez  bore  the  assault  like  any  rock : 

That  was  not  what  he  drew  his  sword  at — he! 

He  spoke  with  neck  erect.] 

LOPEZ. 

If  that's  a  hint 

The  company  should  ask  thee  for  a  song, 
Sing,  then! 

HOST. 

Ay,  Juan,  sing,  and  jar  no  more. 
Something  brand  new.     Thou'rt  wont  to  make  my  ear 
A  test  of  novelties.     Hast  thou  aught  fresh? 

JUAN. 

As  fresh  as  rain-drops.     Here's  a  Cancidn 
Springs  like  a  tiny  mushroom  delicate 
Out  of  the  priest's  foul  scandal  of  Fedalma, 


POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

[He  preluded  with  querying  intervals, 
Rising,  then  falling  just  a  semitone, 
In  minor  cadence — sound  with  poised  wing 
Hovering  and  quivering  toward  the  needed  fall. 
Then  in  a  voice  that  shook  the  willing  air 
With  masculine  vibration  sang  this  song. 

Should  I  long  that  dark  were  fair  ? 

Say,  0  song  ! 

Lacks  my  love  aught,  that  I  should  long  ? 

Dark  the  night,  with  breath  allflow'rs, 

And  tender  broken  voice  that  fills 

With  ravishment  the  listening  hours  : 

Whisperings,  wooings, 

Liquid  ripples  and  soft  ring-dove  cooings 

In  low-toned  rhythm  that  love's  aching  stills. 

Dark  the  night, 

Vet  is  she  bright, 

For  in  her  dark  she  brings  the  mystic  star, 

Trembling  yet  strong,  as  is  the  voice  of  love, 

from  some  unknown  afar. 

0  radiant  Dark  !   0  darkly-fostered  ray  ! 

Thou  hast  a  joy  too  deep  for  shallow  Day. 

While  Juan  sang  all  round  the  tavern  court 

Gathered  a  constellation  of  black  eyes. 

Fat  Lola  leaned  upon  the  balcony 

With  arms  that  might  have  pillowed  Hercules 

(Who  built,  'tis  known,  the  mightiest  Spanish  towns); 

Thin  Alda's  face,  sad  as  a  wasted  passion, 

Leaned  o'er  the  nodding  baby's;  'twixt  the  rails 

The  little  Pepe  showed  his  two  black  beads, 

His  flat-ringed  hair  and  small  Semitic  nose, 

Complete  and  tiny  as  a  new-born  minnow; 

Patting  his  head  and  holding  in  her  arms 

The  baby  senior,  stood  Lorenzo's  wife 

All  negligent,  her  kerchief  discomposed 

By  little  clutches,  woman's  coquetry 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  31 

Quite  turned  to  mother's  cares  and  sweet  content. 

These  on  the  balcony,  while  at  the  door 

Gazed  the  lank  boys  and  lazy- shouldered  men, 

"Tis  likely  too  the  rats  and  insects  peeped, 

Being  southern  Spanish  ready  for  a  lounge. 

The  singer  smiled,  as  doubtless  Orpheus  smiled, 

To  see  the  animals  both  great  and  small, 

The  mountainous  elephant  and  scampering  mouse, 

Held  by  the  ears  in  decent  audience ; 

Then,  when  mine  host  desired  the  strain  once  more, 

He  fell  to  preluding  with  rhythmic  change 

Of  notes  recurrent,  soft  as  pattering  drops 

That  fall  from  off  the  eaves  in  faery  dance 

When  clouds  are  breaking  ^  till  at  measured  pause 

He  struck  with  strength,  in  rare  responsive  chords.] 

HOST. 

Come,  then,  a  gayer  ballad,  if  thou  wilt : 

I  quarrel  not  with  change.     What  say  you,  Captain? 

LOPEZ. 

All's  one  to  me.     I  note  no  change  of  tune, 
Not  I,  save  in  the  ring  of  horses'  hoofs, 
Or  in  the  drums  and  trumpets  when  they  call 
To  action  or  retreat.     I  ne'er  could  see 
The  good  of  singing. 

BLASCO. 

Why,  it  passes  time — 

Saves  you  from  getting  over-wise :  that's  good. 
For,  look  you,  fools  are  merry  here  below, 
Yet  they  will  go  to  heaven  all  the  same, 
Having  the  sacraments;  and,  look  you,  heaven 
Is  a  long  holiday,  and  solid  men, 
Used  to  much  business,  might  be  ill  at  ease 
Not  liking  play.     And  so,  in  travelling, 
I  shape  myself  betimes  to  idleness 
And  take  fools'  pleasures  .  .  .  '• 


32  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

HOST. 

Hark,  the  song  begins! 

JUAN  (sings). 

Maiden,  crowned  with  glossy  blackness, 
Lithe  as  panther  forest-roaming, 

Long-armed  naiad,  ^vhen  she  dances, 
On  a  stream  of  ether  floating — 

Bright,  0  bright  Fedalma  ! 

Form,  all  curves  like  softness  drifted, 
Wave-kissed  marble  roundly  dimpling, 

Far-off  music  slowly  winged, 
Gently  rising,  gently  sinking  — 

Bright,  0  bright  Fedalma  ! 

Pure  as  rain-tear  on  a  rose-leaf, 

Cloud  high-born  in  noonday  spotless, 

Sudden  perfect  as  the  dew-bead, 
Gem  of  earth  and  sky  begotten — 

Bright,  0  bright  Fedalma! 

Beauty  has  no  mortal  father, 
Holy  light  her  form  engendered 

Out  of  tremor,  yearning,  gladness, 
Presage  sweet  and  joy  remembered  — 
Child  of  Light,  Fedalma  ! 

BLASCO. 

Faith,  a  good  song,  sung  to  a  stirring  time. 
I  like  the  words  returning  in  a  round ; 
It  gives  a  sort  of  sense.     Another  such! 

RoLDAisr  (rising). 

Sirs,  you  will  hear  my  boy.     'Tis  very  hard 
When  gentles  sing  for  nought  to  all  the  town. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  33 

How  can  a  poor  man  live?     And  now  'tis  time 
I  go  to  the  Plaxja — who  will  give  me  pence 
When  he  can  hear  hidalgos  and  give  nought? 

JUAN. 

True,  friend.     Be  pacified.     I'll  sing  no  more. 
Go  thou,  and  we  will  follow.     Never  fear. 
My  voice  is  common  as  the  ivy-leaves, 
Plucked  in  all  seasons — bears  no  price ;  thy  boy's 
Is  like  the  almond  blossoms.     Ah,  he's  lame! 

HOST. 

Load  him  not  heavily.     Here,  Pedro !  help. 
Go  with  them  to  the  Plac,a,  take  the  hoops. 
The  sights  will  pay  thee. 

BLASCO. 

I'll  be  there  anon, 

And  set  the  fashion  with  a  good  white  coin. 
But  let  us  see  as  well  as  hear. 

HOST. 

Ay,  prithee. 
Some  tricks,  a  dance. 

BLASCO. 

Yes,  'tis  more  rational. 

ROLDAN  (turning  round  with  the  bundle  and  mon~ 
key  on  his  shoulders). 

You  shall  see  all,  sirs.     There's  no  man  in  Spain 
Knows  his  art  better.     I've  a  twinging  knee 
Oft  hinders  dancing,  and  the  boy  is  lame. 
But  no  man's  monkey  has  more  tricks  than  mine. 

[At  this  high  praise  the  gloomy  Annibal, 
Mournful  professor  of  high  drollery, 
3 


34  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Seemed  to  look  gloomier,  and  the  little  troop 

Went  slowly  out,  escorted  from  the  door 

By  all  the  idlers.     From  the  balcony 

Slowly  subsided  the  black  radiance 

Of  agate  eyes,  and  broke  in  chattering  sounds, 

Coaxings  and  trampings,  and  the  small  hoarse  squeak 

Of  Pepe's  reed.     And  our  group  talked  again.] 


HOST. 

I'll  get  this  juggler,  if  he  quits  him  well, 

An  audience  here  as  choice  as  can  be  lured. 

Tor  me,  when  a  poor  devil  does  his  best, 

'Tis  my  delight  to  soothe  his  soul  with  praise. 

What  though  the  best  be  bad?  remains  the  good 

Of  throwing  food  to  a  lean  hungry  dog. 

I'd  give  up  the  best  jugglery  in  life 

To  see  a  miserable  juggler  pleased. 

But  that's  my  humor.     Crowds  are  malcontent 

And  cruel  as  the  Holy  ....   Shall  we  go? 

All  of  us  now  together? 

LOPEZ. 

Well,  not  I. 

I  may  be  there  anon,  but  first  I  go 
To  the  lower  prison.     There  is  strict  command 
That  all  our  gypsy  prisoners  shall  to-night 
Be  lodged  within  the  fort.     They've  forged  enough 
Of  balls  and  bullets — used  up  all  the  metal. 
At  morn  to-morrow  they  must  carry  stones 
Up  the  south  tower.     'Tis  a  fine  stalwart  band, 
Fit  for  the  hardest  tasks.     Some  say,  the  queen 
Would  have  the  Gypsies  banished  with  the  Jews. 
Some  say,  'twere  better  harness  them  for  work. 
They'  d  feed  on  any  filth  and  save  the  Spaniard. 
Some  say — but  I  must  go.     '  Twill  soon  be  time 
To  head  the  escort.     We  shall  meet  again. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  35 

BLASCO. 

Go,  sir,  with  God  (exit  Lopez).     A  very  proper  man, 

And  soldierly.     But,  for  this  banishment 

Some  men  are  hot  on,  it  ill  pleases  me. 

The  Jews,  now  (sirs,  if  any  Christian  here 

Had  Jews  for  ancestors,  I  blame  him  not; 

We  cannot  all  be  Goths  of  Aragon)— 

Jews  are  not  fit  for  heaven,  but  on  earth 

They  are  most  useful.     'Tis  the  jsame  with  mules, 

Horses,  or  oxen,  or  with  any  pig 

Except  Saint  Anthony's.     They  are  useful  here 

(The  Jews  I  mean)  though  they  may  go  to  hell. 

And,  look  you,  useful  sins — why,  Providence 

Sends  Jews  to  do  'em,  saving  Christian  souls. 

The  very  Gypsies,  curbed  and  harnessed  well, 

Would  make  draught  cattle,  feed  on  vermin  too, 

Cost  less  than  grazing  brutes,  and  turn  bad  food 

To  handsome  carcasses ;  sweat  at  the  forge 

For  little  wages,  and  well  drilled  and  flogged 

Might  work  like  slaves,  some  Spaniards  looking  on. 

I  deal  in  plate,  and  am  no  priest  to  say 

What  God  may  mean,  save  when  he  means  plain  sense; 

But  when  he  sent  the  Gypsies  wandering 

In  punishment  because  they  sheltered  not 

Our  Lady  and  Saint  Joseph  (and  no  doubt 

Stole  the  small  ass  they  fled  with  into  Egypt), 

Why  send  them  here?     'Tis  plain  he  saw  the  use 

They'd  be  to  Spaniards.     Shall  we  banish  them, 

And  tell  God  we  know  better?     'Tis  a  sin. 

They  talk  of  vermin ;  but,  sirs,  vermin  large 

Were  made  to  eat  the  small,  or  else  to  eat 

The  noxious  rubbish,  and  picked  Gypsy  men 

Might  serve  in  war  to  climb,  be  killed,  and  fall 

To  make  an  easy  ladder.     Once  I  saw 

A  Gpysy  sorcerer,  at  a  spring  and  grasp 

Kill  one  who  came  to  seize  him ;  talk  of  strength ! 

Nay,  swiftness  too,  for  while  we  crossed  ourselves 

He  vanished  like — say,  like  .  .  . 


36  POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

• 

JUAN. 

A  swift  black  snake, 
Or  like  a  living  arrow  fledged  with  will. 

BLASCO. 
Why,  did  you  see  him,  pray? 

JUAN. 

Not  then,  but  now, 
As  painters  see  the  many  in  the  one. 
We  have  a  Gypsy  in  Bedmar  whose  frame 
Nature  compacted  with  such  fine  selection, 
'T would  yield  a  dozen  types :  all  Spanish  knights, 
From  him  who  slew  Rolando  at  the  pass 
Up  to  the  mighty  Cid ;  all  deities, 
Thronging  Olympus  in  fine  attitudes ; 
Or  all  hell's  heroes  whom  the  poet  saw 
Tremble  like  lions,  writhe  like  demigods. 

HOST. 

Pause  not  yet,  Juan — more  hyperbole! 
Shoot  upward  still  and  flare  in  meteors 
Before  thou  sink  to  earth  in  dull  brown  fact. 

BLASCO. 

Nay,  give  me  fact,  high  shooting  suits  not  me. 
I  never  stare  to  look  for  soaring  larks. 
What  is  this  Gypsy? 

HOST. 

Chieftain  of  a  band, 

The  Moor's  allies,  whom  full  a  month  ago 
Our  Duke  surprised  and  brought  as  captives  home. 
He  needed  smiths,  and  doubtless  the  brave  Moor 
-    Has  missed  some  useful  scouts  and  archers  too. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  37 

Juan's  fantastic  pleasure  is  to  watch 

These  Gypsies  forging,  and  to  hold  discourse 

With  this  great  chief,  whom  he  transforms  at  will 

To  sage  or  warrior,  and  like  the  sun 

Plays  daily  at  fallacious  alchemy, 

Turns  sand  to  gold,  and  dewy  spider-webs 

To  myriad  rainbows.     Still  the  sand  is  sand, 

And  still  in  sober  shade  you  see  the  web. 

'Tis  so,  I'll  wager,  with  his  Gypsy  chief — 

A  piece  of  stalwart  cunning,  nothing  more. 

JUAN. 

No  1     My  invention  has  been  all  too  poor 

To  frame  this  Zarca  as  I  saw  him  first. 

'Twas  when  they  stripped  him.     In  his  chieftain's  gear, 

Amidst  his  men  he  seemed  a  royal  barb    - 

Followed  by  wild-maned  Audalusian  colts. 

He  had  a  necklace  of  a  strange  device 

In  finest  gold  of  unknown  workmanship, 

But  delicate  as  Moorish,  fit  to  kiss 

Fedalma's  neck,  and  play  in  shadows  there. 

He  wore  fine  mail,  a  rich-wrought  sword  and  belt, 

And  on  his  surcoat  black  a  broidered  torch, 

A  pine-branch  flaming,  grasped  by  two  dark  hands. 

But  when  they  stripped  him  of  his  ornaments 

It  was  the  baubles  lost  their  grace,  not  he. 

His  eyes,  his  mouth,  his  nostril,  all  inspired 

With  scorn  that  mastered  utterance  of  scorn, 

With  power  to  check  all  rage  until  it  turned 

To  ordered  force,  unleashed  on  chosen  prey — 

It  seemed  the  soul  within  him  made  his  limbs 

And  made  them  grand.     The  baubles  were  well  gone. 

He  stood  the  more  a  king,  when  bared  to  man. 

BLASCO. 

Maybe.     But  nakedness  is  bad  for  trade, 
And  is  not  decent.     Well-wrought  metal,  sir, 
Is  not  a  bauble.     Had  you  seen  the  camp, 


38  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

The  royal  camp  at  Velez  Malaga, 
Ponce  de  Leon  and  the  other  dukes, 
The  king  himself  and  all  his  thousand  knights 
For  bodyguard,  'twould  not  have  left  you  breath 
To  praise  a  Gypsy  thus.     A  man's  a  man; 
But  when  you  see  a  king,  you  see  the  work 
Of  many  thousand  men.     King  Ferdinand 
Bears  a  fine  presence,  and  hath  proper  limbs ; 
But  what  though  he  were  shrunken  as  a  relic? 
You'd  see  the  gold  and  gems  that  cased  him  o'er, 
And  all  the  pages  round  him  in  brocade, 
And  all  the  lords,  themselves  a  sort  of  kings, 
Doing  him  reverence.     That  strikes  an  awe 
Into  a  common  man — especially 
A  judge  of  plate. 

HOST. 

Faith,  very  wisely  said. 
Purge  thy  speech,  Juan.     It  is  over-full 
Of  this  same  Gypsy.     Praise  the  Catholic  King. 
And  come  now,  let  us  see  the  juggler's  skill. 

The  Pla$a  Santiago. 

'Tis  daylight  still,  but  now  the  golden  cross 
Uplifted  by  the  angel  on  the  dome 
Stands  rayless  in  calm  color  clear-defined 
Against  the  northern  blue ;  from  turrets  high 
The  flitting  splendor  sinks  with  folded  wing 
Dark-hid  till  morning,  and  the  battlements 
Wear  soft  relenting  whitness  mellowed  o'er 
By  summers  generous  and  winters  bland. 
Now  in  the  east  the  distance  casts  its  veil 
And  gazes  with  a  deepening  earnestness. 
The  old  rain- fretted  mountains  in  their  robes 
Of  shadow-broken  gray ;  the  rounded  hills 
Keddened  with  blood  of  Titans,  whose  huge  limbs. 
Entombed  within,  feed  full  the  hardy  flesh 
Of  cactus  green  and  blue  broad-sworded  aloes 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  39 

The  cypress  soaring  black  above  the  lines 

Of  white  court- walls ;  the  jointed  sugar-canes 

Pale-golden  with  their  feathers  motionless 

In  the  warm  'quiet : — all  thought-teaching  form 

Utters  itself  in  firm  unshimmering  hues. 

For  the  great  rock  has  screened  the  westering  sun 

That  still  on  plains  beyond  streams  vaporous  gold 

Among  the  branches ;  and  within  Bedmar 

Has  come  the  time  of  sweet  serenity 

When  color  grows  unglittering,  and  the  soul 

Of  visible  things  shows  silent  happiness, 

As  that  of  lovers  trusting  though  apart. 

The  ripe-cheeked  fruits,  the  crimson-petalled  flowers: 

The  winged  life  that  pausing  seems  a  gem 

Cunningly  carven  on  the  dark  green  leaf; 

The  face  of  man  with  hues  supremely  blent 

To  difference  fine  as  of  a  voice  'mid  sounds : — 

Each  lovely  light-dipped  thing  seems  to  emerge 

Flushed  gravely  from  baptismal  sacrament. 

All  beauteous  existence  rests,  yet  wakes, 

Lies  still,  yet  conscious  with  clear  open  eyes 

And  gentle  breath  and  mild  suffused  joy. 

'Tis  day,  but  day  that  falls  like  melody 

Eepeated  on  a  string  with  graver  tones — 

Tones  such  as  linger  in  a  long  farewell. 

The  Plaqa  widens  in  the  passive  air — 

The  Placja  Santiago,  where  the  church, 

A  mosque  converted,  shows  an  eyeless  face 

Ked-checkered,  faded,  doing  penance  still — 

Bearing  with  Moorish  arch  the  imaged  saint, 

Apostle,  baron,  Spanish  warrior, 

Whose  charger's  hoofs  trample  the  turbaned  dead, 

Whose  banner  with  the  Cross,  the  bloody  sword 

Flashes  athwart  the  Moslem's  glazing  eye, 

And  mocks  his  trust  in  Allah  who  forsakes. 

Up  to  the  church  the  Plaqa  gently  slopes, 

In  shape  most  like  the  pious  palmer' s  shell, 

Girdled  with  low"  white  houses  j  high  above 


40  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Tower  the  strong  fortress  and  sharp-angled  wall 

And  well-flanked  castle  gate.     From  o'er  the  roofs, 

And  from  the  shadowed  patios  cool,  there  spreads 

The  breath  of  flowers  and  aromatic  leaves 

Soothing  the  sense  with  bliss  indefinite — 

A  baseless  hope,  a  glad  presentiment, 

That  curves  the  lip  more  softly,  fills  the  eye 

With  more  indulgent  beam.     And  so  it  soothes, 

So  gently  sways  the  pulses  of  the  crowd 

Who  make  a  zone  about  the  central  spot 

Chosen  by  Roldan  for  his  theatre. 

Maids  with  arched  eyebrows,  delicate-pencilled,  dark, 

Fold  their  round  arms  below  the  kerchief  full; 

Men  shoulder  little  girls ;  and  grandames  gray, 

But  muscular  still,  hold  babies  on  their  arms ; 

While  mothers  keep  the  stout-legged  boys  in  front 

Against  their  skirts,  as  old  Greek  pictures  show 

The  Glorious  Mother  with  the  Boy  divine. 

Youths  keep  the  places  for  themselves,  and  roll 

Large  lazy  eyes,  and  call  recumbent  dogs 

(For  reasons  deep  below  the  reach  of  thought). 

The  old  men  cough  with  purpose,  wish  to  hint 

Wisdom  within  that  cheapens  jugglery, 

Maintain  a  neutral  air,  and  knit  their  brows 

In  observation.     None  are  quarrelsome, 

Noisy,  or  very  merry ;  for  their  blood 

Moves  slowly  into  fervor — they  rejoice 

Like  those  dark  birds  that  sweep  with  heavy  wing, 

Cheering  their  mates  with  melancholy  cries. 

But  now  the  gilded  balls  begin  to  play 
In  rhythmic  numbers,  ruled  by  practice  fine 
Of  eye  and  muscle:  all  the  juggler's  form 
Consents  harmonious  in  swift-gliding  change, 
Easily  forward  stretched  or  backward  bent 
With  lightest  step  and  movement  circular 
Bound  a  fixed  point:  'tis  not  the  old  Roldan  now, 
The  dull,  hard,  weary,  miserable  man, 
The  soul  all  parched  to  languid  app'etite 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  41 

And  memory  of  desire :  'tis  wondrous  force 
That  moves  in  combination  multiform 
Toward  conscious  ends:  'tis  Roldan  glorious, 
Holding  all  eyes  like  any  meteor, 
King  of  the  moment  save  when  Annibal 
Divides  the  scene  and  plays  the  comic  part, 
Gazing  with  blinking  glances  up  and  down, 
Dancing  and  throwing  nought  and  catching  it> 
With  mimicry  as  merry  as  the  tasks 
Of  penance-working  shades  in  Tartarus. 

Pablo  stands  passive,  and  a  space  apart, 

Holding  a  viol,  waiting  for  command. 

Music  must  not  be  wasted,  but  must  rise 

As  needed  climax ;  and  the  audience 

Is  growing  with  late  comers.     Juan  now, 

And  the  familiar  Host,  with  Blasco  broad, 

Find  way  made  gladly  to  the  inmost  round 

Studded  with  heads.     Lorenzo  knits  the  crowd 

Into  one  family  by  showing  all 

Good- will  and  recognition.     Juan  casts 

His  large  and  rapid-measuring  glance  around; 

But — with  faint  quivering,  transient  as  a  breath 

Shaking  a  flame — his  eyes  make  sudden  pause 

Where  by  the  jutting  angle  of  a  street 

Castle-ward  leading  stands  a  female  form, 

A  kerchief  pale  square-drooping  o'er  the  brow, 

About  her  shoulders  dim  brown  serge — in  garb 

Most  like  a  peasant  woman  from  the  vale, 

Who  might  have  lingered  after  marketing 

To  see  the  show.     What  thrill  mysterious, 

Ray-borne  from  orb  to  orb  of  conscious  eyes, 

The  swift  observing  sweep  of  Juan's  glance 

Arrests  an  instant,  then  with  prompting  fresh 

Diverts  it  lastingly?    He  turns  at  once 

To  watch  the  gilded  balls,  and  nod  and  smile 

At  little  round  Pepita,  blondest  maid 

In  all  Bedmar — Pepfta,  fair  yet  flecked, 

Saucy  of  lip  and  nose,  of  hair  as  red 


42  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

As  breasts  of  robins  stepping  on  the  snow — • 

Who  stands  in  front  with  little  tapping  feet, 

And  baby-dimpled  hands  that  hide  enclosed 

Those  sleeping  crickets,  the  dark  castanets. 

But  soon  the  gilded  balls  have  ceased  to  play 

And  Annibal  is  leaping  through  the  hoops, 

That  turn  to  twelve,  meeting  him  as  he  flies 

In  the  swift  circle.     Shuddering  he  leaps, 

But  with  each  spring  flies  swift  and  swifter  still 

To  loud  and  louder  shouts,  while  the  great  hoops 

Are  changed  to  smaller.     Now  the  crowd  is  fired. 

The  motion  swift,  the  living  victim  urged, 

The  imminent  failure  and  repeated  'scape 

Hurry  all  pulses  and  intoxicate 

With  subtle  wine  of  passion  many-mixt. 

'Tis  all  about  a  monkey  leaping  hard 

Till  near  to  gasping;  but  it  serves  as  well 

As  the  great  circus  or  arena  dire, 

Where  these  are  lacking.     Koldan  cautiously 

Slackens  the  leaps  and  lays  the  hoops  to  rest, 

And  Annibal  retires  with  reeling  brain 

And  backward  stagger — pity,  he  could  not  smile! 

Now  Roldan  spreads  his  carpet,  now  he  shows 

Strange  metamorphoses :  the  pebble  black 

Changes  to  whitest  egg  within  his  hand ; 

A  staring  rabbit,  with  retreating  ears, 

Is  swallowed  by  the  air  and  vanishes ; 

He  tells  men's  thoughts  about  the  shaken  dice, 

Their  secret  choosing ;  makes  the  white  beans  pass 

With  causeless  act  sublime  from  cup  to  cup 

Turned  empty  on  the  ground — diablerie 

That  pales  the  girls  and  puzzles  all  the  boys : 

These  tricks  are  samples,  hinting  to  the  town 

Roldan's  great  mastery.    He  tumbles  next, 

And  Annibal  is  called  to  mock  each  feat 

With  arduous  comicality  and  save 

By  rule  romantic  the  great  public  mind 

Koldan' s  body)  from  too  sericus  strain. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  43 

But  with  the  tumbling,  lest  the  feats  should  fail, 

And  so  need  veiling  in  a  haze  of  sound, 

Pablo  awakes  the  viol  and  the  bow— 

The  masculine  bow  that  draws  the  woman's  heart 

From  out  the  strings  and  makes  them  cry,  yearn,  plead, 

Tremble,  exult,  with  mystic  union 

Of  joy  acute  and  tender  suffering. 

To  play  the  viol  and  discreetly  mix 

Alternate  with  the  bow's  keen  biting  tones 

The  throb  responsive  to  the  finger's  touch 

Was  rarest  skill  that  Pablo  half  had  caught 

From  an  old  blind  and  wandering  Catalan; 

The  other  half  was  rather  heritage 

From  treasure  stored  by  generations  past 

In  winding  chambers  of  receptive  sense. 

The  winged  sounds  exalt  the  thick-pressed  crowd 

With  a  new  pulse  in  common,  blending  all 

The  gazing  life  into  one  larger  soul 

With  dimly  widened  consciousness :  as  waves 

In  heightened  movement  tell  of  waves  far  off. 

And  the  light  changes ;  westward  stationed  clouds, 

The  sun's  ranged  outposts,  luminous  message  spread, 

Rousing  quiescent  things  to  doff  their  shade 

And  show  themselves  as  added  audience. 

Now  Pablo,  letting  fall  the  eager  bow, 

Solicits  softer  murmurs  from  the  strings, 

And  now  above  them  pours  a  wondrous  voice 

(Such  as  Greek  reapers  heard  in  Sicily) 

With  wounding  rapture  in  it,  like  love's  arrows; 

And  clear  upon  clear  air  as  colored  gems 

Dropped  in  a  crystal  cup  of  water  pure, 

Fall  words  of  sadness,  simple,  lyrical : 

Spring  comes  hither, 

Buds  the  rose  ; 
Roses  wither, 

Sweet  spring  goes. 
Ojala,  would  she  carry  me  t 


44  POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Summer  soars  — 

Wide-winged  day 
White  light  pours, 

Flies  away. 
Ojala,  would  he  carry  mel 

Soft  winds  blow, 

Westward  born, 
Onward  go 

Toward  the  morn. 
Ojala,  would  they  carry  me/ 

Sweet  birds  sing 

O'er  the  graves, 
Then  take  wing 

O'er  the  waves. 
Ojala,  would  they  carry  met 

When  the  voice  paused  and  left  the  viol's  note 
To  plead  forsaken,  'twas  as  when  a  cloud 
Hiding  the  sun  makes  all  the  leaves  and  flowers 
Shiver.     But  when  with  measured  change  the  strings 
Had  taught  regret  new  longing,  clear  again, 
Welcome  as  hope  recovered,  flowed  the  voice. 

Warm  whispering  through  the  slender  olive  leaves 
Came  to  me  a  gentle  sound, 
Whispering  of  a  secret  found 

In  the  clear  sunshine  }mtd  the  golden  sheaves . 

Said  it  was  sleeping  for  me  in  the  morn, 
Called  it  gladness,  called  it  joy, 
Drew  me  on — '•  Come  hither,  boy" — 

To  where  the  blue  wings  rested  on  the  corn. 

1  thought  the  gentle  sound  had  whispered  true — 
Thought  the  little  heaven  mine, 
Leaned  to  clutch  the  thing  divine, 

And  saw  the  blue  wings  melt  within  the  blue. 

The  long  notes  linger  on  the  trembling  air, 
With  subtle  penetration  enter  all 


"  A  figure  lith  j,  all  white  and  saffron  robed, 
Flashed  right  across  the  circle."— Page  45. 

Eliot— Spanish  Gypsy. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  45 

The  myriad  corridors  of  the  passionate  soul, 

Message-like  spread,  and  answering  action  rouse. 

Not  angular  jigs  that  warm  the  chilly  limbs 

In  hoary  northern  mists,  but  action  curved 

To  soft  andante  strains  pitched  plaintively. 

Vibrations  sympathetic  stir  all  limbs : 

Old  men  live  backward  in  their  dancing  prime, 

And  move  in  memory ;  small  legs  and  arms 

With  pleasant  agitation  purposeless 

Go  up"  and  down  like  pretty  fruits  in  gales. 

All  long  in  common  for  the  expressive  act 

Yet  wait  for  it ;  as  in  the  olden  time 

Men  waited  for  the  bard  to  tell  their  thought. 

"  The  dance !  the  dance !  "  is  shouted  all  around. 

Now  Pablo  lifts  the  bow,  Pepita  now, 

Ready  as  bird  that  sees  the  sprinkled  corn, 

When  Juan  nods  and  smiles,  puts  forth  her  foot 

And  lifts  her  arm  to  wake  the  castanets. 

Juan  advances,  too,  from  out  the  ring 

And  bends  to  quit  his  lute;  for  now  the  scene 

Is  empty ;  Eoldan,  weary,  gathers  pence, 

Followed  by  Annibal  with  purse  and  stick. 

The  carpet  lies  a  colored  isle  untrod, 

Inviting  feet:  "The  dance,  the  dance,"  resounds, 

The  bow  entreats  with  slow  melodic  strain, 

And  all  the  air  with  expectation  yearns. 

Sudden,  with  gliding  motion  like  a  flame 

That  through  dim  vapor  makes  a  path  of  glory, 

A  figure  lithe,  all  white  and  saffron-robed, 

Flashed  right  across  the  circle,  and  now  stood 

With  ripened  arms  uplift  and  regal  head, 

Like  some  tall  flower  whose  dark  and  intense  heart 

Lies  half  within  a  tulip-tinted  cup. 

Juan  stood  fixed  and  pale ;  Pepita  stepped 
Backward  within  the  ring :  the  voices  fell 
From  shouts  insistent  to  more  passive  tones 
Half  meaning  welcome,  half  astonishment. 
"Lady  Fedalma! — will  she  dance  for  us?" 


46  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

But  she,  sole  swayed  by  impulse  passionate, 
Feeling  all  life  was  music  and  all  eyes 
The  warming  quickening  light  that  music  makes, 
Moved  as,  in  dance  religious,  Miriam, 
When  on  the  Red  Sea  shore  she  raised  her  voice 
And  led  the  chorus  of  the  people's  joy; 
Or  as  the  Trojan  maids  that  reverent  sang 
Watching  the  sorrow-crowned  Hecuba : 
Moved  in  slow  curves  voluminous,  gradual, 
Feeling  and  action  flowing  into  one, 
In  Eden's  natural  taintless  marriage-bond; 
Ardently  modest,  sensuously  pure, 
With  young  delight  that  wonders  at  itself 
And  throbs  as  innocent  as  opening  flowers, 
Knowing  not  comment — soilless,  beautiful. 
The  spirit'in  her  gravely  glowing  face 
With  sweet  community  informs  her  limbs, 
Filling  their  fine  gradation  with  the  breath 
Of  virgin  majesty ;   as  fiill-vowelled  words 
Are  new  impregnate  with  the  master's  thought. 
Even  the  chance-strayed  delicate  tendrils  black, 
That  backward  'scape  from  out  her  wreathing  hair- 
Even  the  pliant  folds  that  cling  transverse 
When  with  obliquely  soaring  bend  altern 
She  seems  a  goddess  quitting  earth  again — 
Gather  expression — a  soft  undertone 
And  resonance  exquisite  from  the  grand  chord 
Of  her  harmoniously  bodied  soul. 

At  first  a  reverential  silence  guards 

The  eager  senses  of  the  gazing  crowd : 

They  hold  their  breath,  and  live  by  seeing  her. 

But  soon  the  admiring  tension  finds  relief — 

Sighs  of  delight,  applausive  murmurs  low, 

And  stirrings  gentle  as  of  eared  corn 

Or  seed-bent  grasses,  when  the  ocean's  breath 

Spreads  landward.     Even  Juan  is  impelled 

By  the  swift-travelling  movement :  fear  and  doubt 

Give  way  before  the  hurrying  energy ; 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  47 

He  takes  his  lute  and  strikes  in  fellowship, 
Filling  more  full  the  rill  of  melody 
Raised  ever  and  anon  to  clearest  flood 
By  Pablo's  voice,  that  dies  away  too  soon, 
Like  the  sweet  blackbird' s  fragmentary  chant, 
Yet  wakes  again,  with  varying  rise  and  fall, 
In  songs  that  seem  emergent  memories 
Prompting  brief  utterance — little  cancidns 
And  villancicos,  Andalusia-born. 

PABLO  (sings). 

It  was  in  the  prime 

Of  the  sweet  Spring-time. 

In  the  linnet's  throat 

Trembled  the  love-note, 
And  the  love-stirred  air 
Thrilled  the  blossoms  there. 

Little  shadoivs  danced 
Each  a  tiny  elf, 

Happy  in  large  light 
And  the  thinnest  self. 

It  was  but  a  minute 
In  a  far-off  Spring, 
But  each  gentle  thing, 
Sweetly-wooing  linnet, 
Soft-thrilled  hawthorn  tree, 
Happy  shadowy  elf 
With  the  thinnest  self, 
Live  still  on  in  me. 
0  the  sweet,  siveet  prime 
Of  the  past  Spring-time  ! 

And  still  the  light  is  changing :  high  above 
Moat  soft  pink  clouds ;  others  with  deeper  flush 
Stretch  like  flamingos  bending  toward  the  south. 
Comes  a  more  solemn  brilliance  o'er  the  sky, 
A  meaning  more  intense  upon  the  air — 
The  inspiration  of  the  dying  day. 


48  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

And  Juan  now,  when  Pablo's  notes  subside, 
Soothes  the  regretful  ear,  and  breaks  the  pause 
With  masculine  voice  in  deep  antiphony. 

JUAN  (sings) . 

Day  is  dying  !     Float,  0  song, 

Down  the  westward  river, 
Requiem  chanting  to  the  Day — 

Day,  the  mighty  Giver. 

Pierced  by  shafts  of  Time  he  bleeds, 

Melted  rubies  sending 
Through  the  river  and  the  sky, 

Earth  and  heaven  blending  / 

All  the  long-drawn  earthy  banks 

Up  to  cloud-land  lifting: 
Slow  between  them  drifts  the  swan, 

'Twixt  two  heavens  drifting. 

Wings  half  open,  like  a  flow* r 

Inly  deeper  flushing, 
Neck  and  breast  as  virgin's  pure — 

Virgin  proudly  blushing. 

Day  is  dying  !     Float,  0  swan. 

Down  the  ruby  river  ; 
Follow,  song,  in  requiem 

To  the  mighty  Giver. 

The  exquisite  hour,  the  ardor  of  the  crowd, 

The  strains  more  plenteous,  and  the  gathering  night 

Of  action  passionate  where  no  effort  is, 

But  self's  poor  gates  open  to  rushing  power 

That  blends  the  inward  ebb  and  outward  vast — 

All  gathering  influences  culminate 

And  urge  "Fedalma.     Earth  and  heaven  seem  one, 

Like  a  glad  trembling  on  the  outer  edge 

Of  unknown  rapture.     Swifter  now  she  moves, 

Filling  the  measure  with  a  double  beat 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

And  widening  circle ;  now  she  seems  to  glow 
With  more  declared  presence,  glorified. 
Circling,  she  lightly  bends  and  lifts  on  high 
The  multitudinous-sounding  tambourine, 
And  makes  it  ring  and  boom,  then  lifts  it  higher, 
Stretching  her  left  arm  beauteous ;  now  the  crowd 
Exultant  shouts,  forgetting  poverty 
In  the  rich  moment  of  possessing  her. 

But  sudden,  at  one  point,  the  exultant  throng 
Is  pushed  and  hustled,  and  then  thrust  apart : 
Something  approaches — something  cuts  the  ring 
Of  jubilant  idlers — startling  as  a  streak 
From  alien  wounds  across  the  blooming  flesh 
Of  careless  sporting  childhood.     'Tis  the  band 
Of  Gypsy  prisoners.     Soldiers  lead  the  van 
And  make  sparse  flanking  guard,  aloof  surveyed 
By  gallant  Lopez,  stringent  in  command. 
The  Gypsies  chained  in  couples,  all  save  one, 
Walk  in  dark  file  with  grand  bare  legs  and  arms 
And  savage  melancholy  in  their  eyes 
That  star-like  gleam  from  out  black  clouds  of  hair ; 
Now  they  are  full  in  sight,  and  now  they  stretch 
Right  to  the  centre  of  the  open  space. 
Fedalma  now,  with  gentle  wheeling  sweep 
Returning,  like  the  loveliest  of  the  Hours 
Strayed  from  her  sisters,  truant  lingering, 
Faces  again  the  centre,  swings  again 
The  uplifted  tambourine.   .   .   . 

When  lo!  with  sound 
Stupendous  throbbing,  solemn  as  a  voice 
Sent  by  the  invisible  choir  of  all  the  dead, 
Tolls  the  great  passing  bell  that  calls  to  prayer 
For  souls  departed :  at  the  mighty  beat 
It  seems  the  light  sinks  awe-struck — 'tis  the  note 
Of  the  sun's  burial;  speech  and  action  pause; 
Religious  silence  and  the  holy  sign 
Of  everlasting  memories  (the  sign 
Of  death  that  turned  to  more  diffusive  life) 
4 


60  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Pass  o'er  the  Pla<ja.     Little  children  gaze 
With  lips  apart,  and  feel  the  unknown  god; 
And  the  most  men  and  women  pray.     Not  all. 
The  soldiers  pray ;  the  Gypsies  stand  unmoved 
As  pagan  statues  with  proud  level  gaze. 
But  he  who  wears  a-  solitary  chain 
Heading  the  file,  has  turned  to  face  Fedalma. 
She  motionless,  with  arm  uplifted,  guards 
The  tambourine  aloft  (lest,  sudden-lowered, 
Its  trivial  jingle  mar  the  duteous  pause), 
Reveres  the  general  prayer,  but  prays  not,  stands 
With  level  glance  meeting  that  Gypsy's  eyes, 
That  seem  to  her  the  sadness  of  the  world 
Rebuking  her,  the  great  bell's  hidden  thought 
'Now  first  unveiled — the  sorrows  unredeemed 
Of  races  outcast,  scorned,  and  wandering. 
Why  does  he  look  at  her?  why  she  at  him? 
As  if  the  meeting  light  between  their  eyes 
Made  permanent  union?     His  deep-knit  brow, 
Inflated  nostril,  scornful  lip  compressed, 
Seem  a  dark  hieroglyph  of  coming  fate 
Written  before  her.     Father  Isidor 
Had  terrible  eyes  and  was  her  enemy ; 
She  knew  it  and  defied  him ;  all  her  soul 
Rounded  and  hardened  in  its  separateness 
When  they  encountered.     But  this  prisoner — 
•     This  Gypsy,  passing,  gazing  casually — 

Was  he  her  enemy  too?     She  stood  all  quelled, 
The  impetuous  joy  that  hurried  in  her  veins 
Seemed  backward  rushing  turned  to  chillest  awe, 
Uneasy  wonder,  and  a  vague  self-doubt. 
The  minute  brief  stretched  measureless,  dream-filled 
By  a  dilated  new-fraught  consciousness. 

Now  it  was  gone;  the  pious  murmur  ceased, 
The  Gypsies  all  moved  onward  at  command 
And  careless  noises  blent  confusedly. 
But  the  ring  closed  again,  and  many  ears 
Waited  for  Pablo's  music,  many  eyes 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Turned  toward  the  carpet :  it  lay  bare  and  dim, 
Twilight  was  there — the  bright  Fedalma  gone. 

A  handsome  room  in  the  Castle.      On  the  table  a  riak 

jewel-casket. 

Silva  had  doffed  his  mail  and  with  it  all 

The  heavier  harness  of  his  warlike  cares. 

He  had  not  seen  Fedalma ;  miser-like 

He  hoarded  through  the  hour  a  costlier  joy 

By  longing  oft-repressed.     Now  it  was  earned; 

And  with  observance  wonted  he  would  send 

To  ask  admission.     Spanish  gentlemen 

Who  wooed  fair  dames  of  noble  ancestry 

Did  homage  with*  rich  tunics  and  slashed  sleeves 

And  outward-surging  linen's  costly  snow; 

With  broidered  scarf  transverse,  and  rosary 

Handsomely  wrought  to  fit  high-blooded  prayer; 

So  hinting  in  how  deep  respect  they  held 

That  self  they  threw  before  their  lady's  feet. 

And  Silva — that  Fedalma' s  rate  should  stand 

No  jot  below  the  highest,  that  her  love 

Might  seem  to  all  the  royal  gift  it  was — 

Turned  every  trifle  in  his  mien  and  garb 

To  scrupulous  language,  uttering  to  the  world 

That  since  she  loved  him  he  went  carefully, 

Bearing  a  thing  so  precious  in  his  hand. 

A  man  of  high-wrought  strain,  fastidious 

In  his  acceptance,  dreading  all  delight 

That  speedy  dies  and  turns  to  carrion. 

His  senses  much  exacting,  deep  instilled 

With  keen  imagination's  airy  needs; — 

Like  strong-limbed  monsters  studded  o'er  with  eyes, 

Their  hunger  checked  by  overwhelming  vision, 

Or  that  fierce  lion  in  symbolic  dream 

Snatched  from  the  ground  by  wings  and  new-endowed 

With  a  man's  thought-propelled  relenting  heart. 

Silva  was  both  the  lion  and  the  man ; 

First  hesitating  shrank,  then  fiercely  sprang, 


52  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Or  having  sprung,  turned  pallid  at  his  deed 

And  loosed  the  prize,  paying  his  blood  for  nought. 

A  nature  half-transformed,  with  qualities 

That  oft  bewrayed  each  other,  elements 

Not  blent  but  struggling,  breeding  strange  effects, 

Passing  the  reckoning  of  his  friends  or  foes. 

Haughty  and  generous,  grave  and  passionate} 

With  tidal  moments  of  devoutest  awe, 

Sinking  anon  to  farthest  ebb  of  doubt; 

Deliberating  ever,  till  the  sting 

Of  a  recurrent  ardor  made  him  rush 

Bight  against  reasons  that  himself  had  drilled 

And  marshalled  painfully.     A  spirit  framed 

Too  proudly  special  for  obedience, 

Too  subtly  pondering  for  mastery :  ' 

Born  of  a  goddess  with  a  mortal  sire, 

Heir  of  flesh-fettered,  weak  divinity, 

Doom-gifted  with  long  resonant  consciousness 

And  perilous  heightening  of  the  sentient  soul. 

But  look  less  curiously :  life  itself 

May  not  express  us  all,  may  leave  the  worst 

And  the  best  too,  like  tunes  in  mechanism 

Never  awaked.     In  various  catalogues 

Objects  stand  variously.     Silva  stands 

As  a  young  Spaniard,  handsome,  noble,  brave, 

With  titles  many,  high  in  pedigree ; 

Or,  as  a  nature  quiveriugly  poised 

In  reach  of  storm  s,  whose  qualities  may  turn 

To  murdered  virtues  that  still  walk  as  ghosts 

Within  the  shuddering  soul  and  shriek  remors« ; 

Or,  as  a  lover  ....   In  the  screening  time 

Of  purple  blossoms,  when  the  petals  crowd 

And  softly  crush  like  cherub  cheeks  in  heaven, 

Who  thinks  of  greenly  withered  fruit  and  worms? 

0  the  warm  southern  spring  is  beauteous ! 

And  in  love's  spring  all  good  seems  possible : 

No  threats,  all  promise,  brooklets  ripple  full 

And  bathe  the  rushes,  vicious  crawling  things 

Are  pretty  eggs,  the  sun  shines  graciously 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  53 

And  parches  not,  the  silent  rain  beats  warm 
As  childhood' s  kisses,  days  are  young  and  grow. 
And  earth  seems  in  its  sweet  beginning  time 
Fresh  made  for  two  who  live  in  Paradise. 
Silva  is  in  love's  spring,  its  freshness  breathed 
Within  his  soul  along  the  dusty  ways 
While  marching  homeward;  'tis  ground  him  now 
As  in  a  garden  fenced  in  for  delight, — 
And  he  may  seek  delight.     Smiling  he  lifts 
A  whistle  from  his  belt,  but  lets  it  fall 
Ere  it  has  reached  his  lips,  jarred  by  the  sound 
Of  ushers'  knocking,  and  a  voice  that  craves 
Admission  for  the  Prior  of  San  Domingo. 

PRIOR  (entering). 

You  look  perturbed,  my  son.     I  thrust  myself 
Between  you  and  some  beckoning  intent 
That  wears  a  face  more  smiling  than  my  own. 

DON  SILVA. 

Father,  enough  that  you  are  here.     I  wait, 
As  always,  your  commands — nay,  should  have  sought 
An  early  audience. 
.   •  PRIOR. 

To  give,  I  trust, 
Good  reasons  for  your  change  of  policy? 

DON  SILVA. 
Strong  reasons,  father. 

PRIOR. 

Ay,  but  are  they  good? 
I  have  known  reasons  strong,  but  strongly  eviL 

DON  SILVA. 

'Tis  possible.     I  but  deliver  mine 

To  your  strict  judgment.     Late  despatches  sent 

With  urgence  by  the  Count  of  Bavien, 


64  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

No  hint  on  my  part  prompting,  with  besides 

The  testified  concurrence  of  the  king 

And  our  Grand  Master,  have  made  peremptory 

The  course  which  else  had  been  but  rational. 

Without  the  forces  furnished  by  allies 

The  siege  of  Guadix  would  be  madness.     More, 

El  Zagal  has  his  eyes  upon  Bedmar : 

Let  him  attempt  it :  in  three  weeks  from  hence 

The  Master  and  the  Lord  of  Aguilar 

Will  bring  their  forces.     We  shall  catch  the  Moors, 

The  last  gleaned  clusters  of  their  bravest  men, 

As  in  a  trap.     You  have  my  reasons,  father. 

PRIOR. 

And  they  sound  well.     But  free-tongued  rumor  adds 

A  pregnant  supplement — in  substance  this : 

That  inclination  snatches  arguments 

To  make  indulgence  seem  judicious  choice; 

That  you,  commanding  in  God's  Holy  War, 

Lift  prayers  to  Satan  to  retard  the  fight 

And  give  you  time  for  feasting — wait  a  siege, 

Call  daring  enterprise  impossible, 

Because  you'd  marry.     You,  a  Spanish  duke, 

Christ's  general,  would  marry  like  a  clown, 

Who,  selling  fodder  dearer  for  the  war, 

Is  all  the  merrier ;  nay,  like  the  brutes, 

Who  know  no  awe  to  check  their  appetite, 

Coupling  'mid  heaps  of  slain,  while  still  in  front 

The  battle  rages. 

DON  SILVA. 

Rumor  on  your  lips 
Is  eloquent,  father. 

PRIOR. 

Is  she  true? 

Dox  SILVA. 

Perhaps. 
I  seek  to  justify  my  public  acts 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  66 

And  not  my  private  joy.     Before  the  world 
Enough  if  I  am  faithful  in  command, 
Betray  not  by  my  deeds,  swerve  from  no  task 
My  knightly  vows  constrain  me  to :  herein 
I  ask  all  men  to  test  me. 

PRIOR. 

Knightly  vows? 
Is  it  by  their  constraint  that  you  must  marry? 

DON  SILVA. 

Marriage  is  not  a  breach  of  them.     I  use 
A  sanctioned  liberty  ....  your  pardon,  father, 
I  need  not  teach  you  what  the  Church  decrees. 
But  facts  may  weaken  texts,  and  so  dry  up 
The  fount  of  eloquence.     The  Church  relaxed 
Our  Order's  rule  before  I  took  the  vows. 

PRIOR. 

Ignoble  liberty !  you  snatch  your  rule 

From  what  God  tolerates,  not  what  he  loves? — 

Inquire  what  lowest  offering  may  suffice, 

Cheapen  it  meanly  to  an  obolus, 

Buy,  and  then  count  the  coin  left  in  your  purse 

For  your  debauch? — Measure  obedience 

By  scantest  powers  of  brethren  whose  frail  flesh 

Our  Holy  Church  indulges? — Ask  great  Law, 

The  rightful  Sovereign  of  the  human  soul, 

For  what  it  pardons,  not  what  it  commands? 

O  fallen  knighthood,  penitent  of  high  vows, 

Asking  a  charter  to  degrade  itself! 

Such  poor  apology  of  rules  relaxed 

Blunts  not  suspicion  of  that  doubleness 

Your  enemies  tax  you  with. 

DON  SILVA. 

Oh,  for  the  rest, 
Conscience  is  harder  than  our  enemies, 


66  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Knows  more,  accuses  with  more  nicety, 
Nor  needs  to  question  Rumor  if  we  fall 
Below  the  perfect  model  of  our  thought. 
I  fear  no  outward  arbiter,  — You  smile? 

PRIOR. 

Ay,  at  the  contrast  'twixt  your  portraiture 

And  the  true  image  of  your  conscience,  shown 

As  now  I  see  it  in  your  acts.     I  see 

A  drunken  sentinel  who  gives  alarm 

At  his  own  shadow,  but  when  sealers  snatch 

His  weapon  from  his  hand  smiles  idiot-like 

At  games  he's  dreaming  of. 

DON  SILVA. 

A  parable! 
The  husk  is  rough — holds  something  bitter,  doubtless. 

PRIOR. 

Oh,  the  husk  gapes  with  meaning  over-ripe. 
You  boast  a  conscience  that  controls  your  deeds, 
Watches  your  knightly  armor,  guards  your  rank 
From  stain  of  treachery — you,  helpless  slave, 
Whose  will  lies  nerveless  in  the  clutch  of  lust — 
Of  blind  mad  passion — passion  itself  most  helpless, 
Storm-driven,  like  the  monsters  of  the  sea. 
O  famous  conscience  1 

DON  SILVA. 

Pause  there!     Leave  unsaid 

Aught  that  will  match  that  text.     More  were  too  much, 
Even  from  holy  lips.     I  own  no  love 
But  such  as  guards  my  honor,  since  it  guards 
Hers  whom  I  love !     I  suffer  no  foul  words 
To  stain  the  gift  I  lay  before  her  feet; 
And,  being  hers,  my  honor  is  more  safe. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  67 


PRIOR. 

Versemakers*  talk !  fit  for  a  world  of  rhymes, 

Where  facts  are  feigned  to  tickle  idle  ears, 

Where  good  and  evil  play  at  tournament 

And  end  in  amity — a  world  of  lies — 

A  carnival  of  words  where  every  year 

Stale  falsehoods  serve  fresh  men.     Your  honor  safe? 

What  honor  has  a  man  with  double  bonds? 

Honor  is  shifting  as  the  shadows  are 

To  souls  that  turn  their  passions  into  laws. 

A  Christian  knight  who  weds  an  infidel  .... 

DON  SILVA  (fiercely). 
An  infidel! 

PRIOR. 

May  one  day  spurn  the  Cross, 
And  call  that  honor ! — one  day  find  his  sword 
Stained  with  his  brother's  blood,  and  call  that  honor! 
Apostates'  honor? — harlot's  chastity! 
Eenegades'  faithfulness ? — Iscariot's ! 

DON  SILVA. 

Strong  words  and  burning ;  but  they  scorch  not  me. 
Fedalma  is  a  daughter  of  the  Church- 
Has  been  baptized  and  nurtured  in  the  faith. 

PRIOR. 

Ay,  as  a  thousand  Jewesses,  who  yet 
Are  brides  of  Satan  in  a  robe  of  flames. 


DON  SILVA. 

Fedalma  is  no  Jewess,  bears  no  marks 
That  tell  of  Hebrew  blood. 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

PRIOR. 

She  bears  the  marks 
Of  races  unbaptized,  that  never  bowed 
Before  the  holy  signs,  were  never  moved 
By  stirrings  of  the  sacramental  gifts. 

DON  SILVA  (scornfully). 

Holy  accusers  practise  palmistry, 

And,  other  witness  lacking,  read  the  skin. 

PRIOR. 

I  read  a  record  deeper  than  the  skin. 

What!     Shall  the  trick  of  nostrils  and  of  lips 

Descend  through  generations,  and  the  soul 

That  moves  within  our  frame  like  God  in  worlds — 

Convulsing,  urging,  melting,  withering — 

Imprint  no  record,  leave  no  documents, 

Of  her  great  history?     Shall  men  bequeath 

The  fancies  of  their  palate  to  their  sons, 

And  shall  the  shudder  of  restraining  awe, 

The  slow- wept  tears  of  contrite  memory, 

Faith's  prayerful  labor,  and  the  food  divine 

Of  fasts  ecstatic — shall  these  pass  away 

Like  wind  upon  the  waters,  tracklessly? 

Shall  the  mere  curl  of  eyelashes  remain, 

And  god-enshrining  symbols  leave  no  trace 

Of  tremors  reverent? — That  maiden's  blood 

Is  as  unchristian  as  the  leopard's. 

DON  SILVA. 

Say, 

Unchristian  as  the  Blessed  Virgin's  blood 
Before  the  angel  spoke  the  word,  "  All  haill " 

PRIOR  (smiling  bitterly). 

Said  I  not  truly?     See,  your  passion  weaves 
Already  blasphemies  I 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  59 

DON  SILYA. 

'Tis  you  provoke  them. 

PRIOR. 

I  strive,  as  still  'the  Holy  Spirit  strives, 

To  move  the  will  perverse.     But,  failing  this, 

God  commands  other  means  to  save  our  blood, 

To  save  Castilian  glory — nay,  to  save 

The  name  of  Christ  from  blot  of  traitorous  deeds. 

DON  SILVA. 

Of  traitorous  deeds !     Age,  kindred,  and  your  cowl, 

Give  an  ignoble  license  to  your  tongue. 

As  for  your  threats,  fulfil  them  at  your  peril. 

'Tis  you,  not  I,  will  gibbet  our  great  name 

To  rot  in  infamy.     If  I  am  strong 

In  patience  now,  trust  me,  I  can  be  strong 

Then  in  defiance. 

PRIOR. 

Miserable  man ! 

Your  strength  will  turn  to  anguish,  like  the  strength 
Of  fallen  angels.     Can  you  change  your  blood? 
You  are  a  Christian,  with  the  Christian  awe 
In  every  vein.     A  Spanish  noble,  born 
To  serve  your  people  and  your  people's  faith. 
Strong,  are  you?     Turn  your  back  upon  the  Cross—' 
Its  shadow  is  before  you.     Leave  your  place : 
Quit  the  great  ranks  of  knighthood :  you  will  walk 
For  ever  with  a  tortured  double  self, 
A  self  that  will  be  hungry  while  you  feast, 
Will  blush  with  shame  while  you  are  glorified, 
Will  feel  the  ache  and  chill  of  desolation, 
Even  in  the  very  bosom  of  your  love. 
Mate  yourself  with  this  woman,  fit  for  what? 
To  make  the  sport  of  Moorish  palaces, 
A  lewd  Herodias  .  .  . 


60  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

DON  SILVA. 

Stop!  no  other  man, 

Priest  though  he  were,  had  had  his  throat  left  free 
For  passage  of  those  words.     I  would  have  clutched 
His  serpent's  neck,  and  flung  him  out  to  hell  ! 
A  monk  must  needs  defile  the  name  of  love : 
He  knows  it  but  as  tempting  devils  paint  it. 
You  think  to  scare  my  love  from  its  resolve 
With  arbitrary  consequences,  strained 
By  rancorous  effort  from  the  thinnest  motes 
Of  possibility  ?-— cite  hideous  lists 
Of  sins  irrelevant,  to  frighten  me 
With  bugbears'  names,  as  women  fright  a  child? 
Poor  pallid  wisdom,  taught  by  inference 
From  blood-drained  life,  where  phantom  terrors  rule, 
And  all  achievement  is  to  leave  undone! 
Paint  the  day  dark,  make  sunshine  cold  to  me, 
Abolish  the  earth's  fairness,  prove  it  all 
A  fiction  of  my  eyes — then,  after  that, 
Profane  Fedalma. 

PKIOK. 

0  there  is  no  need : 

She  has  profaned  herself.     Go,  raving  man, 
And  see  her  dancing  now.     Go,  see  your  bride 
Flaunting  her  beauties  grossly  in  the  gaze 
Of  vulgar  idlers — eking  out  the  show 
Made  in  the  Plaga  by  a  mountebank. 
I  hinder  you  no  farther. 

DON  SILVA. 

It  is  false! 

PRIOR. 
Go,  prove  it  false,  then. 

[Father  Isidor 
Drew  on  his  cowl  and  turned  away.     The  face 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

That  flashed  anathemas,  in  swift  eclipse 

Seemed  Silva's  vanished  confidence.     In  haste 

He  rushed  unsignalled  through  the  corridor 

To  where  the  Duchess  once,  Fedalma  now, 

Had  residence  retired  from  din  of  arms — 

Knocked,  opened,  found  all  empty — said 

With  muffled  voice,  "  Fedalma!  " — called  more  loud, 

More  oft  on  Inez,  the  old  trusted  nurse — 

Then  searched  the  terrace-garden,  calling  still, 

But  heard  no  answering  sound,  and  saw  no  facQ 

Save  painted  faces  staring  all  unmoved 

By  agitated  tones.     He  hurried  back, 

Giving  half -conscious  orders  as  he  went 

To  page  and  usher,  that  they  straight  should  seek 

Lady  Fedalma;  then  with  stinging  shame 

Wished  himself  silent ;  reached  again  the  room 

Where  still  the  Father's  menace  seemed  to  hang 

Thickening  the  air ;  snatched  cloak  and  plumed  hat, 

And  grasped,  not  knowing  why,  his  poniard's  hilt; 

Then  checked  himself  and  said : — ] 

If  he  spoke  truth! 

To  know  were  wound  enough — to  see  the  truth 
Were  fire  upon  the  wound.     It  must  be  false ! 
His  hatred  saw  amiss,  or  snatched  mistake 
In  other  men's  report.     I  am  a  fool! 
But  where  can  she  be  gone?  gone  secretly? 
And  in  my  absence?     Oh,  she  meant  no  wrong! 
I  am  a  fool! — But  where  can  she  be  gone? 
With  only  Inez?     Oh,  she  meant  no  wrong! 
I  swear  she  never  meant  it.     There's  no  wrong 
But  she  would  make  it  momentary  right 
By  innocence  in  doing  it.  ... 

And  yet, 

What  is  our  certainty?     Why,  knowing  all 
That  is  not  secret.     Mighty  confidence! 
One  pulse  of  Time  makes  the  base  hollow — sends 
The  towering  certainty  we  built  so  high 
Toppling  in  fragments  meaningless,     What  is— 


62  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

What  will  be — must  be — pooh !  they  wait  the  key 
Of  that  which  is  not  yet ;  all  other  keys 
Are  made  of  our  conjectures,  take  their  sense 
From  humors  fooled  by  hope,  or  by  despair. 
Know  what  is  good?     0  God,  we  know  not  yet 
If  bliss  itself  is  not  young  misery 
With  fangs  swift  growing.   .  .   . 

But  some  outward  harm 
May  even  now  be  hurting,  grieving  her. 
Oh!  I  must  search — face  shame — if  shame  be  there. 
Here,  Perez !  hasten  to  Don  Alvar — tell  him 
Lady  Fedalma  must  be  sought — is  lost — 
Has  met,  I  fear,  some  mischance.     He  must  send 
Toward  divers  points.     I  go  myself  to  seek 
First  in  the  town.  .  .  . 

[As  Perez  oped  the  door, 
Then  moved  aside  for  passage  of  the  Duke, 
Fedalma  entered,  cast  away  the  cloud 
Of  serge  and  linen,  and  outbeaming  bright, 
Advanced  a  pace  toward  Silva — but  then  paused, 
For  he  had  started  and  retreated ;  she, 
Quick  and  responsive  as  the  subtle  air 
To  change,  in  him,  divined  that  she  must  wait 
Until  they  were  alone :  they  stood  and  looked. 
Within  the  Duke  was  struggling  confluence 
Of  feelings  manifold — pride,  anger,  dread, 
Meeting  in  stormy  rush  with  sense  secure 
That  she  was  present,  with  the  new-stilled  thirst 
Of  gazing  love,  with  trust  inevitable 
As  in  beneficent  virtues  of  the  light 
And  all  earth's  sweetness,  that  Fedalma' s  soul 
Was  free  from  blemishing  purpose.     Yet  proud  wrath 
Leaped  in  dark  flood  above  the  purer  stream 
That  strove  to  drown  it :  Anger  seeks  its  prey — 
Something  to  tear  with  sharp-edged  tooth  and  claw, 
Likes  not  to  go  o£2  hungry,  leaving  Love 
To  feast  on  milk  and  honeycomb  at  will. 
Silva' s  heart  said,  he  must  be  happy  soon, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

She  being  there ;  but  to  be  happy -^-first 

He  must  be  angry,  having  cause.     Yet  love 

Shot  like  a  stifled  cry  of  tenderness 

All  through  the  harshness  he  would  fain  have  given 

To  the  dear  word,] 

DON  SILVA. 
Fedalma! 

FED  ALMA. 

0  my  lord! 
You  are  come  back,  and  I  was  wandering! 


SILVA  (coldly,  but  with  suppressed  agitation). 
You  meant  I  should  be  ignorant. 

FED  ALMA. 

Oh  no, 

I  should  have  told  you  after — not  before, 
Lest  you  should  hinder  me. 

DON  SILVA. 

Then  my  known  wish 
Can  make  no  hindrance? 

FEDALMA  (archly). 

That  depends 

On  what  the  wish  may  be.     You  wished  me  once 
Not  to  uncage  the  birds.     I  meant  to  obey : 
But  in  a  moment  something — something  stronger, 
Forced  me  to  let  them  out.     It  did  no  harm. 
They  all  came  back  again — the  silly  birds! 
I  told  you,  after. 


64  POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

DON  SILVA'  (with  haughty  coldness). 

Will  you  tell  me  now 

What  was  the  prompting  stronger  than  my  wish 
that  made  you  wander? 

FEDALMA  (advancing  a  step  toward  him,  with  a 
sudden  look  of  anxiety). 

Are  you  angry? 

DON  SILVA  (smiling  bitterly). 

Angry? 

A  man  deep-wounded  may  feel  too  much  pain 
To  feel  much  anger. 

FED  ALMA  (still  more  anxiously). 
You — deep-wounded? 

DON  SILVA. 

Yes! 

Have  I  not  made  your  place  and  dignity 
The  very  heart  of  my  ambition?     You— 
No  enemy  could  do  it — you  alone 
Can  strike  it  mortally. 

FED  ALMA. 

Nay,  Silva,  nay. 

Has  some  one  told  you  false?     I  only  went 
To  see  the  world  with  Ifiez — see  the  town, 
The  people,  everything.     It  was  no  harm. 
I  did  not  mean  to  dance :  it  happened  so 
At  last  .  .  . 

Dox  SILVA. 

0  God,  it's  true  then ! — true  that  you, 
A  maiden  nurtured  as  rare  flowers  are. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  65 

The  very  air  of  heaven  sifted  fine, 
Lest  any  mote  should  mar  your  purity, 
Have  flung  yourself  out  on  the  dusty  way 
For  common  eyes  to  see  your  beauty  soiled! 
You  own  it  true — you  danced  upon  the 


FED  ALMA  (proudly]. 

Yes,  it  was  true.     I  was  not  wrong  to  dance. 
The  air  was  rilled  with  music,  with  a  song 
That  seemed  the  voice  of  the  sweet  eventide — 
The  glowing  light  entering  through  eye  and  ear — 
That  seemed  our  love — mine,  yours— they  are  but  one- 
Trembling  through  all  my  limbs,  as  fervent  words 
Tremble  within  my  soul  and  must  be  spoken. 
And  all  the  people  felt  a  common  joy 
And  shouted  for  the  dance.     A  brightness  soft 
As  of  the  angels  moving  down  to  see 
Illumined  the  broad  space.     The  joy,  the  life 
Around,  within  me,  were  one  heaven :  I  longed 
To  blend  them  visibly :  I  longed  to  dance 
Before  the  people — be  as  mounting  flame 
To  all  that  burned  within  them !     Nay,  I  danced; 
There  was  no  longing :  I  but  did  the  deed 
Beiug  moved  to  do  it. 

(As  FEDALMA  speaks,  she  and  DON  SILVA  are  gradu- 
ally drawn  nearer  to  each  other.) 

Oh!  I  seemed  new- waked 
To  life  in  unison  with  a  multitude — 
Feeling  my  soul  upborne  by  all  their  souls, 
Floating  within  their  gladness !     Soon  I  lost 
All  sense  of  separateness :  Fedalma  died 
As  a  star  dies,  and  melts  into  the  light. 
I  was  not,  but  joy  was,  and  love  and  triumph. 
Nay,  my  dear  lord,  I  never  could  do  aught 
But  I  must  feel  you  present.     And  once  done, 
Why,  you  must  love  it  better  than  your  wish. 
5 


66  POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

I  pray  you,  say  so — say,  it  was  not  wrong ! 

( While  FED  ALMA  has  been  making  this  last 

they  have  gradually  come  close  together,  and  at  last 
embrace.) 

DON  SILVA  (holding  her  hands). 

Dangerous  rebel !  if  the  world  without 

Were  pure  as  that  within  .  .  .  but  'tis  a  book 

Wherein  you  only  read  the  poesy 

And  miss  all  wicked  meanings.     Hence  the  need 

For  trust — obedience — -call  it  what  you  will — 

Toward  him  whose  life  will  be  your  guard — toward  me 

Who  now  am  soon  to  be  your  husband. 

FED ALMA. 

Yes! 

That  very  thing  that  when  I  am  your  wife 
I  shall  be  something  different, — shall  be 
I  know  not  what,  a  Duchess  with  new  thoughts — 
For  nobles  never  think  like  common  men, 
Nor  wives  like  maidens  (Oh,  you  wot  not  yet 
How  much  I  note,  with  all  my  ignorance) — • 
That  very  thing  has  made  me  more  resolve 
To  have  my  will  before  I  am  your  wife. 
How  can  the  Duchess  ever  satisfy 
Fedalma's  unwed  eyes?  and  so  to-day 
I  scolded  Inez  till  she  cried  and  went. 

DON  SILVA. 

It  was  a  guilty  weakness :  she  knows  well 
That  since  you  pleaded  to  be  left  more  free 
From  tedious  tendance  and  control  of  dames 
Whose  rank  matched  better  with  your  destiny, 
Her  charge — my  trust — was  weightier. 

FED  ALMA. 

Nay,  my  lord, 
You  must  not  blame  her,  dear  old  nurse.     She  cried. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  67 

Why,  you  would  have  consented  too,  at  last. 

I  said  such  things !     I  was  resolved  to  go, 

And  see  the  streets,  the  shops,  the  men  at  work, 

The  women,  little  children — everything, 

Just  as  it  is  when  nobody  looks  on. 

And  I  have  done  it !     We  were  out  four  hours. 

I  feel  so  wise. 

DON  SILVA. 

Had  you  but  seen  the  town, 
You  innocent  naughtiness,  not  shown  yourself — 
Shown  yourself  dancing — you  bewilder  me! — 
Frustrate  my  judgment  with  strange  negatives 
That  seem  like  poverty,  and  yet  are  wealth 
In  precious  womanliness,  beyond  the  dower 
Of  other  women:  wealth  in  virgin  gold, 
Outweighing  all  their  petty  currency. 
You  daring  modesty !     You  shrink  no  more 
From  gazing  men  than  from  the  gazing  flowers 
That,  dreaming  sunshine,  open  as  you  pass. 

FEDALMA. 

No,  I  should  like  the  world  to  look  at  me 

With  eyes  of  love  that  make  a  second  day. 

I  think  your  eyes  would  keep  the  life  in  me 

Though  I  had  nought  to  feed  on  else.     Their  blue 

Is  better  than  the  heavens — holds  more  love 

For  me,  Fedalma — is  a  little  heaven 

For  this  one  little  world  that  looks  up  now. 

DON  SILVA. 

0  precious  little  world !  you  make  the  heaven 
As  the  earth  makes  the  sky.     But,  dear,  all  eyes, 
Though  looking  even  on  you,  have  not  a  glance 
That  cherishes  .  .  . 

FEDALMA. 

Ah  no,  I  meant  to  tell  you — 
Tell  how  my  dancing  ended  with  a  pang. 


68  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

There  came  a  man,  one  among  many  more, 
But  he  came  first,  with  iron  on  his  limbs. 
And  when  the  bell  tolled,  and  the  people  prayed, 
And  I  stood  pausing — then  he  looked  at  me. 

0  Silva,  such  a  man !     I  thought  he  rose 
From  the  dark  place  of  long-imprisoned  souls, 
To  say  that  Christ  had  never  come  to  them. 
It  was  a  look  to  shame  a  seraph's  joy, 

And  make  him  sad  in  heaven.     It  found  me  there — 

Seemed  to  have  travelled  far  to  find  me  there 

And  grasp  me — claim  this  festal  life  of  mine 

As  heritage  of  sorrow,  chill  my  blood 

With  the  cold  iron  of  some  unknown  bonds. 

The  gladness  hurrying  full  within  my  veins 

Was  sudden  frozen,  and  I  danced  no  more. 

But  seeing  you  let  loose  the  stream  of  joy, 

Mingling  the  present  with  the  sweetest  past. 

Yet,  Silva,  still  I  see  him.     Who  is  he? 

Who  are  those  prisoners  with  him?     Are  they  Moors? 

DON  SILVA. 

No,  they  are  Gypsies,  strong  and  cunning  knaves, 
A  double  gain  to  us  by  the  Moors'  loss  : 
The  man  you  mean — their  chief — is  an  ally 
The  infidel  will  miss.     His  look  might  chase 
A  herd  of  monks,  and  make  them  fly  more  swift 
Than  from  St.  Jerome's  lion.     Such  vague  fear, 
Such  bird-like  tremors  when  that  savage  glance 
Turned  full  upon  you  in  your  height  of  joy 
Was  natural,  was  not  worth  emphasis. 
Forget  it,  dear.     This  hour  is  worth  whole  days 
When  we  are  sundered.     Danger  urges  us 
To  quick  resolve. 

FEDALI&TA. 

What  danger?  what  resolve? 

1  never  felt  chill  shadow  in  my  heart 
Until  this  sunset. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  69 

DON  SILVA. 

A  dark  enmity 

Plots  how  to  sever  us.     And  our  defence 
Is  speedy  marriage,  secretly  achieved, 
Then  publicly  declared.     Beseech  you,  dear, 
Grant  me  this  confidence ;  do  my  will  in  this, 
Trusting  the  reasons  why  I  overset 
All  my  own  airy  building  raised  so  high 
Of  bridal  honors,  marking  when  you  step 
From  off  your  maiden  throne  to  come  to  me 
And  bear  the  yoke  of  love.     There  is  great  need. 
I  hastened  home,  carrying  this  prayer  to  you 
Within  my  heart.     The  bishop  is  my  friend, 
Furthers  our  marriage,  holds  in  enmity — 
Some  whom  we  love  not  and  who  love  not  us. 
By  this  night's  moon  our  priest  will  be  despatched 
From  Jaen.     I  shall  march  an  escort  strong 
To  meet  him.     Ere  a  second  sun  from  this 
Has  risen — you  consenting — we  may  wed. 

FEDALMA. 
Hone  knowing  that  we  wed? 

DON  SILVA* 

Beforehand  none 

Save  Ifiez  and  Don  Alvar.     But  the  vows 
Once  safely  binding  us,  my  household  all 
Shall  know  you  as  their  Duchess.     No  man  then 
Can  aim  a  blow  at  you  but  through  my  breast, 
And  what  stains  you  must  stain  our  ancient  name; 
If  any  hate  you  I  will  take  his  hate, 
And  wear  it  as  a  glove  upon  my  helm; 
Nay,  God  himself  will  never  have  the  power 
To  strike  you  solely  and  leave  me  unhurt, 
He  having  made  us  one.     Now  put  the  seal 
Of  your  dear  lips  on  that. 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

FED ALMA. 

A  solemn  kiss? — 

Such  as  I  gave  you  when  you  cauie  that  day 
From  Cdrdova,  when  first  we  said  we  loved? 
When  you  had  left  the  ladies  of  the  Court 
For  thirst  to  see  nie ;  and  you  told  me  so, 
And  then  I  seemed  to  know  why  I  had  lived. 
I  never  knew  before.     A  kiss  like  that? 

DON  SILVA. 

Yes,  yes,  you  face  divine !     When  was  our  kiss 
Like  any  other? 

FEDAI,MA. 

Nay,  I  cannot  tell 

What  other  kisses  are.     But  that  one  kiss 
Kemains  upon  my  lips.     The  angels,  spirits, 
Creatures  with  finer  sense,  may  see  it  there. 
And  now  another  kiss  that  will  not  die, 
Saying,  To-morrow  I  shall  be  your  wife! 

(They  kiss,  and  pause  a  moment,  looking  earnestly  in 
each  other's  eyes.  Then  FEDALMA,  breaking  away 
from  DON  SILVA,  stands  at  a  little  distance  from 
him  with  a  look  of  roguish  delight.) 

Now  I  am  glad  1  saw  the  town  to-day 

Before  I  am  a  Duchess — glad  I  gave 

This  poor  Fedalma  all  her  wish.     For  once, 

Long  years  ago,  I  cried  when  Inez  said, 

"  You  are  no  more  a  little  girl " ;  I  grieved 

To  part  forever  from  that  little  girl 

And  all  her  happy  world  so  near  the  ground. 

It  must  be  sad  to  outlive  aught  we  love. 

So  I  shall  grieve  a  little  for  these  days 

Of  poor  unwed  Fedalma.     Oh,  they  are  sweet, 

And  none  will  come  just  like  them.     Perhaps  the  wind 

Wails  so  in  winter  for  the  summers  dead, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  71 

And  all  sad  sounds  are  nature's  funeral  cries 
For  what  has  been  and  is  not.     Are  they,  Silva? 

(She  comes  nearer  to  him  again,  and  lays  her  hand 
on  his  arm}  looking  up  at  him  with  melancholy.) 

DON  SILVA. 

Why,  dearest,  you  began  in  merriment, 
And  end  as  sadly  as  a  widowed  bird. 
Some  touch  mysterious  has  new-tuned  your  soul 
To  melancholy  sequence.     You  soared  high 
In  that  wild  flight  of  rapture  when  you  danced, 
And  now  you  droop.     '  Tis  arbitrary  grief, 
Surfeit  of  happiness,  that  mourns  for  loss 
Of  unwed  love,  which  does  but  die  like  seed 
For  fuller  harvest  of  our  tenderness. 
We  in  our  wedded  life  shall  know  no  loss. 
We  shall  new-date  our  years.     What  went  before 
Will  be  the  time  of  promise,  shadows,'  dreams; 
But  this,  full  revelation  of  great  love. 
For  rivers  blent  take  in  a  broader  heaven, 
And  we  shall  blend  our  souls.     Away  with  grief! 
When  this  dear  head  shall  wear  the  double  crown 
Of  wife  and  Duchess — spiritually  crowned 
With  sworn  espousal  before  God  and  man — 
Visibly  crowned  with  jewels  that  bespeak 
The  chosen  sharer  of  my  heritage— 
My  love  will  gather  perfectness,  as  thoughts 
That  nourish  us  to  magnanimity 
Grow  perfect  with  more  perfect  utterance, 
Gathering  full-shapen  strength.     And  then  these  gems, 
(DON  SILVA  draws  FEDALMA  toward  the  jewel-casket 

on  the  table,  and  opens  it.) 
Helping  the  utterance  of  my  soul's  full  choice, 
Will  be  the  words  made  richer  by  just  use, 
And  have  new  meaning  in  their  lustrousness. 
You  know  these  jewels ;  they  are  precious  signs 
Of  long-transmitted  honor,  heightened  still 
By  worthy  wearing;  and  I  give  them  you — 


72 


Ask  you  to  take  them — place  our  house's  trust 
In  her  sure  keeping  whom  my  heart  has  found 
Worthiest,  most  beauteous.     These  rubies — see — 
Were  falsely  placed  if  not  upon  your  brow. 

(FEDALMA,  while  DON  SILVA  holds  open  the  casket^ 
bends  over  it,  looking  at  the  Jewels  with  delight.) 

FED  ALMA. 

Ah,  I  remember  them.     In  childish  days 
I  felt  as  if  they  were  alive  and  breathed. 
I  used  to  sit  with  awe  and  look  at  them. 
And  now  they  will  be  mine!     I'll  put  them  on. 
Help  me,  my  lord,  and  you  shall  see  me  now 
Somewhat  as  I  shall  look  at  Court  with  you. 
That  we  may  know  if  I  shall  bear  them  well. 
I  have  a  fear  sometimes :  I  think  your  love 
Has  never  paused  within  your  eyes  to  look, 
And  only  passes  through  them  into  mine. 
But  when  the  Court  is  looking,  and  the  queen, 
Your  eyes  will  follow  theirs.     Oh,  if  you  saw 
That  I  was  other  than  you  wished — 'twere  death! 

DON  SILVA  (taking  up  a  jewel  and  placing  it 
against  her  ear). 

Nay,  let  us  try.     Take  out  your  ear-ring,  sweet. 
This  ruby  glows  with  longing  for  your  ear. 

FEDALMA  (taking  out  her  ear-rings,  and  then  lifting 
up  the  other  jewels,  one  by  one). 

Pray,  fasten  in  the  rubies. 

(DoN  SILVA  begins  to  put  in  the  ear-ring.) 

I  was  right! 

These  gems  have  life  in  them :  their  colors  speak, 
Say  what  words  fail  of.     So  do  many  things — 
The  scent  of  jasmine,  and  the  fountain's  plash, 
The  moving  shadows  on  the  far-off  hills, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  73 

The  slanting  moonlight,  and  our  clasping  hands. 
O  Silva,  there's  an  ocean  round  our  words 
That  overflows  and  drowns  them.     Do  you  know 
Sometimes  when  we  sit  silent,  and  the  air 
Breathes  gently  on  us  from  the  orange-trees, 
It  seems  that  with  the  whisper  of  a  word 
Our  souls  must  shrink,  get  poorer,  more  apart. 
Is  it  not  true? 

DON  SILVA. 

Yes,  dearest,  it  is  true. 
Speech  is  but  broken  light  upon  the  depth 
Of  the  unspoken :  even  your  loved  words 
Float  in  the  larger  meaning  of  your  voice 
As  something  dimmer. 

(He  is  still  trying  in  vain  to  fasten  the  second  ear- 
.ring,  while  she  has  stooped  again  over  the  casket.) 


FEDALMA  (raising  her  head). 

Ah !  your  lordly  hands 
Will  never  fix  that  jewel.     Let  me  try. 
Women's  small  finger-tips  have  eyes. 


DOIT  SILVA. 

No,  no! 
I  like  the  task,  only  you  must  be  still. 

(She  stands  perfectly  still,  clasping  her  hands  together 
while  he  fastens  the  second  ear-ring.  Suddenly  a 
clanking  noise  is  heard  without.) 

FEDALMA  (starting  with  an  expression  of  pain). 

What  is  that  sound? — that  jarring  cruel  sound? 
'Tis  there — outside. 

(She  tries  to  start  away  toward  the  window,  but  DON 
SILVA  detains  her.} 


74  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


DON  SILYA. 

O  heed  it  not,  it  comes 
From  workmen  in  the  outer  gallery. 

FEDALMA. 

It  is  the  sound  of  fetters ;  sound  of  work 

Is  not  so  dismal.     Hark,  they  pass  along! 

I  know  it  is  those  Gypsy  prisoners. 

I  saw  them,  heard  their  chains.     0  horrible, 

To  be  in  chains !     Why,  I  with  all  my  bliss 

Have  longed  sometimes  to  fly  and  be  at  large; 

Have  felt  imprisoned  hi  my  luxury 

With  servants  for  my  gaolers.     0  my  lord, 

Do  you  not  wish  the  world  were  different? 

DON  SILVA. 

It  will  be  different  when  this  war  has  ceased. 
You,  wedding  me,  will  make  it  different, 
Making  one  life  more  perfect. 

FEDALMA. 

That  is  true! 

And  I  shall  beg  much  kindness  at  your  hands 
For  those  who  are  less  happy  than  ourselves. — 
(Brightening)  Oh  I  shall  rule  you !  ask  for  many  things 
Before  the  world,  which  you  will  not  deny 
For  very  pride,  lest  men  should  say,  "  The  Duke 
Holds  lightly  by  his  Duchess ;  he  repents 
His  humble  choice." 

(She  breaks  away  from  him  and  returns  to  t/^e  jewels, 
taking  up  a  necklace,  and  clasping  it  on  her  neck, 
while  he  takes  a  circlet  of  diamonds  and  rubies  and 
raises  it  toward  her  head  as  he  speaks.) 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  75 

DON  SILVA. 

Doubtless,  I  shall  persist 
In  loving  you,  to  disappoint  the  world ; 
Out  of  pure  obstinacy  feel  myself 
Happiest  of  men.     Now,  take  the  coronet. 

(He  places  the  circlet  on  her  head.) 
The  diamonds  want  more  light.     See,  from  this  lamp 
I  can  set  tapers  burning. 

FEDALMA. 

Tell  me,  now, 

When  all  these  cruel  wars  are  at  an  end, 
And  when  we  go  to  Court  at  Cdrdova, 
Or  Seville,  or  Toledo — wait  awhile, 
I  must  be  farther  off  for  you  to  see — 

(She  retreats  to  a  distance  from  him,  and  then  ad- 
vances slowly. ) 

Now  think  (I  would  the  tapers  gave  more  light!) 
If  when  you  show  me  at  the  tournaments 
Among  the  other  ladies,  they  will  say, 
"  Duke  Silva  is  well  matched.     His  bride  was  nought, 
Was  some  poor  foster-child,  no  man  knows  what ; 
Yet  is  her  carriage  noble,  all  her  robes 
Are  worn  with  grace:  she  might  have  been  well  born." 
Will  they  say  so?     Think  now  we  are  at  Court, 
And  all  eyes  bent  on  me. 

DON  SILVA. 

Fear  not,  my  Duchess! 

Some  knight  who  loves  may  say  his  lady-love 
Is  fairer,  being  fairest.     None  can  say 
Don  Silva's  bride  might  better  fit  her  rank. 
You  will  make  rank  seem  natural  as  kind, 
As  eagle's  plumage  or  the  lion's  might. 
A  crown  upon  your  brow  would  seem  God-made. 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

FEDALMA. 

Then  I  am  glad !     I  shall  try  on  to-night 
The  other  jewels — have  the  tapers  lit, 
And  see  the  diamonds  sparkle. 

(She  goes  to  the  casket  again.) 

Here  is  gold — 
A  necklace  of  pure  gold — most  finely  wrought. 

(She  takes  out  a  large  gold  necklace  and  holds  it  up 

before  her,  then  turns  to  DON  SILVA.) 
But  this  is  one  that  you  have  worn,  my  lord? 

DON  SILVA. 

No,  love,  I  never  wore  it.     Lay  it  down. 

(He  puts  the  necklace  gently  out  of  her  hands,  then 
joins  both  her  hands  and  holds  them  up  between  his 
own.) 

You  must  not  look  at  jewels  any  more, 
But  look  at  me. 

FEDALMA  (looking  up  at  him). 

0  you  dear  heaven ! 

I  should  see  nought  if  you  were  gone.     'Tis  true 
My  mind  is  too  much  given  to  gauds — to  things 
That  fetter  thought  within  this  narrow  space. 
That  comes  of  fear. 

DON  SILVA. 
What  fear? 

FEDALMA. 

Fear  of  myself. 

For  when  I  walk  upon  the  battlements 
And  see  the  river  travelling  toward  the  plain, 
The  mountains  screening  all  the  world  beyond, 
A  longing  comes  that  haunts  me  in  my  dreams — 
Dreams  where  I  seem  to  spring  from  off  the  walls, 
And  fly  far,  far  away,  until  at  last 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

I  find"  myself  alone  among  the  rocks, 
Eemember  then  that  I  have  left  you — try 
To  fly  back  to  you — and  my  wings  are  gone! 

DON  SILVA. 

A  wicked  dream !     If  ever  I  left  you, 

Even  in  dreams,  it  was  some  demon  dragged  me, 

And  with  fierce  struggles  I  awaked  myself. 

FED  ALMA. 

It  is  a  hateful  dream,  and  when  it  conies — 

I  mean,  when  in  my  waking  hours  there  comes 

That  longing  to  be  free,  I  am  afraid : 

I  run  down  to  my  chamber,  plait  my  hair, 

Weave  colors  in  it,  lay  out  all  my  gauds, 

And  in  my  mind  make  new  ones  prettier. 

You  see  I  have  two  minds,  and  both  are  foolish. 

Sometimes  a  torrent  rushing  through  my  soul 

Escapes  in  wild  strange  wishes;  presently, 

It  dwindles  to  a  little  babbling  rill 

And  plays  among  the  pebbles  and  the  flowers. 

Inez  will  have  it  I  lack  broidery, 

Says  nought  else  gives  content  to  noble  maids. 

But  I  have  never  broidered — never  will. 

No,  when  I  am  a  Duchess  and  a  wife 

I  shall  ride  forth — may  I  not? — by  your  side. 

DON  SILVA. 

Yes,  you  shall  ride  upon  a  palfrey,  black 
To  match  Bavieca.     Not  Queen  Isabel 
Will  be  a  sight  more  gladdening  to  men's  eyes 
Than  my  dark  queen  Fedalma. 

FED  ALMA. 

Ah,  but  you, 

You  are  my  king,  and  I  shall  tremble  still 
With  some  great  fear  that  throbs  within  my  love. 
Does  your  love  fear? 


78  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

DON  SILVA. 

Ah,  yes!  all  preciousness 
To  mortal  hearts  is  guarded  by  a  fear. 
All  love  fears  loss,  and  most  that  loss  supreme, 
Its  own  perfection — seeing,  feeling  change 
From  high  to  lower,  dearer  to  less  dear. 
Can  love  be  careless?     If  we  lost  our  love 
What  should  we  find? — with  this  sweet  Past  torn  off, 
Our  lives  deep  scarred  just  where  their  beauty  lay? 
The  best  we  found  thenceforth  were  still  a  worse: 
The  only  better  is  a  Past  that  lives 
On  through  an  added  Present,  stretching  still 
In  hope  unchecked  by  shaming  memories 
To  life's  last  breath.     And  so  I  tremble  too 
Before  my  queen  Fedalma. 

FEDALMA. 

That  is  just. 

'Twere  hard  of  Love  to  make  us  women  fear 
And  leave  you  bold.     Yet  Love  is  not  quite  even. 
For  feeble  creatures,  little  birds  and  fawns, 
Are  shaken  more  by  fear,  while  large  strong  things 
Can  bear  it  stoutly.     So  we  women  still 
Are  not  well  dealt  with.     Yet  I'd  choose  to  be 
Fedalma  loving  Silva.     You,  my  lord, 
Hold  the  worse  share,  since  you  must  love  poor  me. 
But  is  it  what  we  love,  or  how  we  love, 
That  makes  true  good? 

DON  SILVA. 

0  subtlety !  for  me 

'Tis  what  I  love  determines  how  I  lore. 
The  goddess  with  pure  rites  reveals  herself 
And  makes  pure  worship. 

FEDALMA. 

Do  you  worship  me? 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  79 

Dofr  SILVA. 

Ay,  with  that  best  of  worship  which  adores 
Goodness  adorable. 

FEDALMA  (archly). 

Goodness  obedient, 
Doing  your  will,  devoutest  worshipper? 

DON  SILVA. 

Yes — listening  to  this  prayer.     This  very  night 
I  shall  go  forth.     And  you  will  rise  with  day 
And  wait  for  me? 

FEDALMA. 

Yes. 
DON  SILVA. 

I  shall  surely  come. 

And  then  we  shall  be  married.  Now  I  go 
To  audience  fixed  in  Abderahman's  tower. 
Farewell,  love! 

(They  embrace.) 
'  FEDALMA. 

Some  chill  dread  possesses  me! 

DON  SILVA. 

Oh,  confidence  has  oft  been  evil  augury, 

So  dread  may  hold  a  promise.     Sweet,  farewell! 

I  shall  send  tendance  as  I  pass,  to  bear 

This  casket  to  your  chamber. — One  more  kiss. 

(Exit.} 

FEDALMA  (when  DON  SILVA  is  gone,  returning  to  the 
casket,  and  looking  dreamily  at  the  jewels). 

Yes,  now  that  good  seems  less  impossible! 
Now  it  seems  true  that  I  shall  be  his  wife, 
Be  ever  by  his  side,  and  make  a  part 
In  all  his  purposes.  .  .  . 


80  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

These  rubies  greet  me  Duchess.     How  they  glow  I 

Their  prisoned  souls  are  throbbing  like  my  own. 

Perchance  they  loved  once,  were  ambitious,  proud; 

Or  do  they  only  dream  of  wider  life, 

Ache  from  intenseness,  yearn  to  burst  the  wall 

Compact  of  crystal  splendor,  and  to  flood 

Some  wider  space  with  glory?     Poor,  poor  gems! 

We  must  be  patient  in  our  prison-house, 

And  find  our  space  in  loving.     Pray  you,  love  me. 

Let  us  be  glad  together.     And  you,  gold — 

{She  takes  up  the  gold  necklace  ) 
You  wondrous  necklace — will  you  love  me  too, 
And  be  my  amulet  to  keep  me  safe 
From  eyes  that  hurt? 

{She  spreads  out  the  necklace,  meaning  to  clasp  it  on 
her  neck.  Then  pauses,  startled,  holding  it  before 
her.) 

Why,  it  is  magical  I 

He  says  he  never  wore  it — yet  these  lines — 
Nay,  if  he  had,  I  should  remember  well 
'Twas  he,  no  other.     And  these  twisted  lines — 
They  seem  to  speak  to  me  as  writing  would, 
To  bring  a  message  from  the  dead,  dead  past. 
What  is  their  secret?     Are  they  characters? 
I  never  learned  them ;  yet  they  stir  some  sense 
That  once  I  dreamed — I  have  forgotten  what. 
Or  was  it  life?     Perhaps  I  lived  before 
In  some  strange  world  where  first  my  soul  was  shaped, 
And  all  this  passionate  love,  and  joy,  and  pain, 
That  come,  I  know  not  whence,  and  sway  my  deeds, 
Are  old  imperious  memories,  blind  yet  strong, 
That  this  world  stirs  within  me;  as  this  chain 
Stirs  some  strange  certainty  of  visions  gone, 
And  all  my  mind  is  as  an  eye  that  stares 
Into  the  darkness  painfully. 

(While  FEDALMA  has  been  looking  at  tlte  necklace, 
JUAN  h.as  entered,  and  finding  himself  unobserved 
by  her,  says  at  last,) 

Sefiora! 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY  81 

FED  ALMA  starts,  and  gathering  the  necklace  together, 
turns  round — 

Oh,  Juan,  it  is  you! 

JUAN. 

I  met  the  Duke — 

Had  waited  long  without,  no  matter  why — 
And  when  he  ordered  one  to  wait  on  you 
And  carry  forth  a  burthen  you  would  give, 
I  prayed  for  leave  to  be  the  servitor. 
Don  Silva  owes  me  twenty  granted  wishes 
That  I  have  never  tendered,  lacking  aught 
That  I  could  wish  for  and  a  Duke  could  grant; 
But  this  one  wish  to  serve  you,  weighs  as  much 
As  twenty  other  longings. 

FEDALMA  (smiling). 

That  sounds  well. 

You  turn  your  speeches  prettily  as  songs. 
But  I  will  not  forget  the  many  days 
You  have  neglected  me.     Your  pupil  learns 
But  little  from  you  now.     Her  studies  flag. 
Tie  Duke  says,  k<  That  is  idle  Juan's  way : 
Poets  must  rove — are  honey-sucking  birds 
And  know  not  constancy."     Said  he  quite  true? 

JUAN. 

0  lady,  constancy  has  kind  and  rank. 
One  man's  is  lordly,  plump,  and  bravely  clad, 
Holds  its  head  high,  and  tells  the  world  its  name; 
Another  man's  is  beggared,  must  go  bare, 
And  shiver  through  the  world,  the  jest  of  all, 
But  that  it  puts  the  motley  on,  and  plays 
Itself  the  jester.     But  I  see  you  hold 
The  Gypsy's  necklace:  it  is  quaintly  wrought. 
6 


82  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

FED  ALMA. 
The  Gypsy's?    Do  you  know  its  history? 

JUAN. 

No  farther  back  than  when  I  saw  it  taken 
From  off  its  wearer's  neck — the  Gypsy  chief's. 

FEDALMA  (eagerly). 

What!  he  who  paused,  at  tolling  of  the  bell, 
Before  me  in  the  Plaga? 

JUAN. 

Yes,  I  saw 
His  look  fixed  on  you. 

FEDALMA. 
Know  you  aught  of  him? 

JUAN. 

Something  and  nothing — as  I  know  the  sky, 

Or  some  great  story  of  the  olden  time 

That  hides  a  secret.     I  have  oft  talked  with  him. 

He  seems  to  say  much,  yet  is  but  a  wizard 

Who  draws  down  rain  by  sprinkling;  throws  me  out 

Some  pregnant  text  that  urges  comment;  casts 

A  sharp-hooked  question,  baited  with  such  skill 

It  needs  must  catch  the  answer. 

FEDALMA. 

It  is  hard 

That  such  a  man  should  be  a  prisoner — 
Be  chained  to  work. 

JUAN. 

Oh,  he  is  dangerous! 
Granada  with  this  Zarca  for  a  king 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  83 

Might  still  maim  Christendom.     He  is  of  those 
Who  steal  the  keys  from  snoring  Destiny 
And  make  the  prophets  lie,     A  Gypsy,  too, 
Suckled  by  hunted  beasts,  whose  mother-milk 
Has  filled  his  veins  with  hate. 

FED  ALMA. 

I  thought  his  eyes 

Spoke  not  of  hatred — seemed  to  say  he  bore 
The  pain  of  those  who  never  could  be  saved. 
What  if  the  Gypsies  are  but  savage  beasts 
And  must  be  hunted? — let  them  be  set  free, 
Have  benefit  of  chase,  or  stand  at  bay 
And  fight  for  life  and  offspring.     Prisoners! 
Oh !  they  have  made  their  fires  beside  the  streams, 
Their  walls  have  been  the  rocks,  the  pillared  pines, 
Their  roof  the  living  sky  that  breathes  with  light: 
They  may  well  hate  a  cage,  like  strong-winged  birds, 
Like  me,  who  have  no  wings,  but  only  wishes. 
I  will  beseech  the  Duke  to  set  them  free. 

JUAN. 

Pardon  me,  lady,  if  I  seem  to  warn, 
Or  try  to  play  the  sage.     What  if  the  Duke 
Loved  not  to  hear  of  Gypsies?  if  their  name 
Were  poisoned  for  him  once,  being  used  amiss? 
I  speak  not  as  of  fact.     Our  nimble  souls 
Can  spin  an  insubstantial  universe 
Suiting  our  mood,  and  call  it  possible, 
Sooner  than  see  one  grain  with  eye  exact 
And  give  strict  record  of  it.     Yet  by  chance 
Our  fancies  may  be  truth  and  make  us  seers. 
'Tis  a  rare  teeming  world,  so  harvest-full, 
Even  guessing  ignorance  may  pluck  some  fruit. 
Note  what  I  say  no  farther  than  will  stead 
The  siege  you  lay.     I  would  not  seem  to  tell 
Aught  that  the  Duke  may  think  and  yet  withhold  : 
It  were  a  trespass  in  me. 


84  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


FEDALMA. 

Fear  not,  Juan. 

Your  words  bring  daylight  with  them  when  you  speak. 
I  understand  your  care.     But  I  am  brave — 
Oh!  and  so  cunning! — always  I  prevail. 
Now,  honored  Troubadour,  if  you  will  be 
Your  pupil's  servant,  bear  this  casket  hence. 
Nay,  not  the  necklace :  it  is  hard  to  place. 
Pray  go  before  me ;  Inez  will  be  there. 

(Exit  JUAN  with  the  casket.) 

FEDALMA  (looking  again  at  the  necklace). 

It  is  his  past  clings  to  you,  not  my  own. 
If  we  have  each  our  angels,  good  and  bad, 
Fates,  separate  from  ourselves,  who  act  for  us 
When  we  are  bund,  or  sleep,  then  this  man's  fate, 
Hovering  about  the  thing  he  used  to  wear, 
Has  laid  its  grasp  on  mine  appealingly. 
Dangerous,  is  he?— well,  a  Spanish  knight 
Would  have  his  enemy  strong— defy,  not  bind  him. 
I  can  dare  all  things  when  my  soul  is  moved 
By  something  hidden  that  possesses  me. 
If  Silva  said  this  man  must  keep  his  chains 
I  should  find  ways  to  free  him — disobey 
And  free  him  as  I  did  the  birds.     But  no! 
As  soon  as  we  are  wed,  I'll  put  my  prayer, 
And  he  will  not  deny  me :  he  is  good. 
Oh,  I  shall  have  much  power  as  well  as  joy! 
Duchess  Fedalma  may  do  what  she  will. 

A  Street  by  the  Castle.  JUAN  leans  against  a  parapet, 
in  moonlight,  and  touches  his  lute  half  unconsciously. 
PEPITA  stands  on  tiptoe  watching  him,  and  then  ad- 
vances till  her  shadow  falls  in  front  of  him.  He 
looks  toward  her.  A  piece  of  white  drapery  thrown 
over  her  head  catches  the  moonlight. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY,  85 

JUAN. 

Ha !  my  Pepita !  see  how  thin  and  long 
Your  shadow  is.     "Tis  so  your  ghost  will  be, 
When  you  are  dead. 

PEPITA  (crossing  herself). 

Dead ! — 0  the  blessed  saints : 
Yon  would  be  glad,  then,  if  Pepita  died? 

JUAN. 

Glad!  why?     Dead  maidens  are  not  merry.     Ghosts 
Are  doleful  company.     I  like  you  living. 

PEPITA. 

I  think  you  like  me  not.     I  wish  you  did. 
Sometimes  you  sing  to  me  and  make  me  dance, 
Another  time  you  take  no  heed  of  me, 
Not  though  I  kiss  my  hand  to  you  and  smile. 
But  Andres  would  be  glad  if  I  kissed  him, 

JUAN. 
My  poor  Pepita,  I  am  old. 

PEPITA. 

No,  no. 

You  have  no  wrinkles. 

JUAN. 

Yes,  I  have — within; 
The  wrinkles  are  within,  my  little  bird. 
Why,  I  have  lived  through  twice  a  thousand  years, 
And  kept  the  company  of  men  whose  bones 
Crumbled  before  the  blessed  Virgin  lived. 

PEPITA  (crossing  herself). 

Nay,  God  defend  us,  that  s  wicked  talk! 

You  say  it  but  to  scorn  me.     ( With  a  sob)  I  will  go. 


86  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

JUAN. 

Stay,  little  pigeon.     I  am  not  unkind. 

Come,  sit  upon  the  wall.     Xay,  never  cry. 

Give  me  your  cheek  to  kiss.     There,  cry  no  more! 

(PEPITA,  sitting  on  the  low  parapet,  puts  up  her  cheek 
to  JUAN,  who  kisses  it,  putting  his  hand  under  her 
chin.  She  takes  his  hand  and  kisses  it.} 

PEPITA. 

I  like  to  kiss  your  hand.     It  is  so  good — 
So  smooth  and  soft. 

JUAN. 

Well,  well,  I'll  sing  to  you. 

PEPITA. 
A  pretty  song,  loving  and  merry? 

JUAN. 

Tee. 

(JUAN  sings.} 
Jfanory, 
Tell  to  me 
What  is  fair, 
Past  compare, 

In  the  land  of  Tubal? 

Is  it  Spring's 
Lovely  things, 
Blossoms  white, 
Rosy  dight  ? 

Then  it  is  Pepita. 

Summer's  crest 
Red-gold  tressed, 

Corn-flowers  peeping  under  ? — 
Idle  noons, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  87 

Lingering  moons. 
Sudden  cloud, 
Lightning's  shroud. 
Sudden  rain, 
Quick  again 

Smiles  where  late  was  thunder  ?  — 
Are  all  these 
Made  to  please  ? 

So  too  is  Pepita. 

Autumn's  prime, 
Apple-time, 
Smooth  cheek  round, 
Heart  all  sound? — 
Is  it  this 
Vou  would  kiss  ? 
Then  it  is  Peptta. 

You  can  bring 
No  sweet  thing, 
But  my  mind 
Still  shall  find 
It  is  my  Pepita. 

Memory 
Says  to  me 
It  is  she — 
She  is  fair 
Past  compare 

In  the  land  of  Tubal. 

PEPITA  (seizing  JUAN'S  hand  again). 
Oh,  then,  you  do  love  me? 

JUAN. 

Yes,  in  the  song. 

PEPITA  (sadly). 
Not  out  of  it? — not  love  me  out  of  it? 


88  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

JUAN. 

Only  a  little  out  of  it,  ray  bird. 

When  I  was  singing  I  was  Andres,  say, 

Or  one  who  loves  you  better  still  than  he. 

PEP  IT  A. 
Not  yourself? 

JUAN. 
No! 

PEPITA  (throwing  his  hand  down  pettishly). 

Then  take  it  back  again  1 
I  will  not  have  it! 

JUAN. 

Listen,  little  one. 

Juan  is  not  a  living  man  by  himself : 
His  life  is  breathed  in  him  by  other  men, 
And  they  speak  out  of  him.     He  is  their  voice. 
Juan's  own  life  he  gave  once  quite  away. 
Pepita's  lover  sang  that  song — not  Juan. 
We  old,  old  poets,  if  we  kept  our  hearts, 
Should  hardly  know  them  from  another  man's. 
They  shrink  to  make  room  for  the  many  more 
We  keep  within  us.     There,  now — one  more  kiss, 
And  then  go  home  again. 

PEPITA  (a  little  frightened,  after  letting  JUAN  kiss 
her). 

You  are  not  wicked? 

JUAN. 

Ask  your  confessor — tell  him  what  I  said. 

(PEPITA  goes,  while  JUAN  thrums  his  lute  again,  and 
sings. ) 

Came  a  pretty  maid 

By  the  moon's  pure  light, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  89 

Loved  me  well,  she  said, 
Eyes  with  team  all  bright, 
A  pretty  maid  ! 

But  too  late  she  strayed, 

Moonlight  pure  was  there; 
She  was  nought  but  shade 

Hiding  the  more  fair, 
The  heavenly  maid! 

A  vaulted  room  all  stone.  The  light  shed  from  a  high  lamp. 
Wooden  chairs,  a  desk,  book-shelves.  The  PRIOR,  in 
white  frock,  a  black  rosary  with  a  cruci/ix  of  ebony  and 
ivory  at  his  side,  is  walking  up  and  down,  holding  a  writ- 
ten paper  in  his  hands,  which  are  clasped  behind  him. 

What  if  this  witness  lies?  he  says  he  heard  her 

Counting  her  blasphemies  on  a  rosary, 

And,  in  a  bold  discourse  with  Salomo, 

Say  that  the  Host  was  nought  but  ill-mixed  flour, 

That  it  was  mean  to  pray — she  never  prayed. 

I  know  the  man  who  wrote  this  for  a  cur, 

Who  follows  Don  Diego,  sees  life's  good 

In  scraps  my  nephew  flings  him.     What  then? 

Particular  lies  may  speak  a  general  truth. 

I  guess  him  false,  but  know  her  heretic — 

Know  her  for  Satan's  instrument,  bedecked 

With  heathenish  charms,  luring  the  souls  of  men 

To  damning  trust  in  good  unsanctified. 

Let  her  be  prisoned — questioned — she  will  give 

Witness  against  herself,  that  were  this  false  .  .   . 

(He  looks  at  the  paper  again  and  reads,  then  again 

thrusts  it  behind  him.) 
The  matter  and  the  color  are  not  false : 
The  form  concerns  the  witness,  not  the  judge; 
For  proof  is  gathered  by  the  shifting  mind, 
Not  given  in  crude  and  formal  circumstance. 
Suspicion  is  a  heaven-sent  lamp,  and  I — 
I,  watchman  of  the  Holy  Office,  bear 
That  lamp  in  trust.     I  will  keep  faithful  watch. 


90  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

The  Holy  Inquisition's  discipline 

Is  mercy,  saving  her,  if  penitent — 

God  grant  it! — else — root  up  the  poison-plant, 

Though  'twere  a  lily  with  a  golden  heart! 

This  spotless  maiden  with  her  pagan  soul 

Is  the  arch-enemy's  trap :  he  turns  his  back 

On  all  the  prostitutes,  and  watches  her 

To  see  her  poison  men  with  false  belief 

In  rebel  virtues.     She  has  poisoned  Silva; 

His  shifting  mind,  dangerous  in  fitfulness, 

Strong  in  the  contradiction  of  itself, 

Carries  his  young  ambitions  wearily, 

As  holy  vows  regretted.     Once  he  seemed 

The  fresh-oped  flower  of  Christian  knighthood,  born 

For  feats  of  holy  daring ;  and  I  said : 

"  That  half  of  life  which  I,  as  monk,  renounce, 

Shall  be  fulfilled  in  him :  Silva  will  be 

That  saintly  noble,  that  wise  warrior, 

That  blameless  excellence  in  worldly  gifts 

I  would  have  been,  had  I  not  asked  to  live 

The  higher  life  of  man  impersonal 

Who  reigns  o'er  all  things  by  refusing  all." 

What  is  his  promise  now?     Apostasy 

From  every  high  intent : — languid,  nay,  gone, 

The  prompt  devoutness  of  a  generous  heart, 

The  strong  obedience  of  a  reverent  will, 

That  breathes  the  Church's  air  and  sees  her  light, 

He  peers  and  strains  with  feeble  questioning, 

Or  else  he  jests.     He  thinks  I  know  it  not — 

I  who  have  read  the  history  of  his  lapse, 

As  clear  as  it  is  writ  in  the  angel's  book. 

He  will  defy  me — flings  great  words  at  me — 

Me  who  have  governed  all  our  house's  acts, 

Since  I,  a  stripling,  rulod  his  stripling  father. 

This  maiden  is  the  cause,  and  if  they  wed, 

The  Holy  War  may  count  a  captain  lost. 

For  better  he  were  dead  than  keep  his  place, 

And  fill  it  infamously:  in  God's  war 

Slackness  is  infamy.     Shall  I  stand  by 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  91 

And  let  the  tempter  win?  defraud  Christ's  cause, 
And  blot  his  banner? — all  for  scruples  weak 
Of  pity  toward  their  young  and  frolicsome  blood; 
Or  nice  discrimination  of  the  tool 
By  which  my  hand  shall  work  a  sacred  rescue? 
The  fence  of  rules  is  for  the  purblind  crowd ; 
They  walk  by  averaged  precepts :  sovereign  men, 
Seeing  by  God's  light,  see  the  general 
By  seeing  all  the  special — own  no  rule 
But  their  full  vision  of  the  moment's  worth. 
'Tis  so  God  governs,  using  wicked  men — 
Nay,  scheming  fiends,  to  work  his  purposes. 
Evil  that  good  may  come?     Measure  the  good 
Before  you  say  what's  evil.     Perjury? 
I  scorn  the  perjurer,  but  I  will  use  him 
To  serve  the  holy  truth.     There  is  no  lie 
Save  in  his  soul,  and  let  his  soul  be  judged. 
I  know  the  truth,  and  act  upon  the  truth. 

O  God,  thou  knowest  that  my  will  is  pure. 
Thy  servant  owns  nought  for  himself,  his  wealth 
Is  but  obedience.     And  I  have  sinned 
In  keeping  small  respects  of  human  love — 
Calling  it  mercy.     Mercy?     Where  evil  is 
True  mercy  holds  a  sword.     Mercy  would  save.  • 
Save  whom?     Save  serpents,  locusts,  wolves? 
Or  out  of  pity  let  the  idiots  gorge 
Within  a  famished  town?     Or  save  the  gains 
Of  men  who  trade  in  poison  lest  they  starve? 
Save  all  things  mean  and  foul  that  clog  the  earth 
Stifling  the  better?     Save  the  fools  who  cling 
For  refuge  round  their  hideous  idol's  limbs, 
So  leave  the  idol  grinning  unconsumed, 
And  save  the  fools  to  breed  idolaters? 
O  mercy  worthy  of  the  licking  hound 
That  knows  no  future  but  its  feeding  time! 
Mercy  has  eyes  that  pierce  the  ages — sees 
From  heights  divine  of  the  eternal  purpose 
Far-scattered  consequence  in  its  vast  sum; 


92  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Chooses  to  save,  but  with  illumined  vision 

Sees  that  to  save  is  greatly  to  destroy. 

'Tis  so  the  Holy  Inquisition  sees :  its  wrath 

Is  fed  from  the  strong  heart  of  wisest  love. 

For  love  must  needs  make  hatred.     He  who  loves 

God  and  his  law  must  hate  the  foes  of  God. 

And  I  have  sinned  in  being  merciful : 

Being  slack  in  hate,  I  have  been  slack  in  love,, 

(He  takes  the  crucifix  and  holds  it  up  before  him.] 
Thou  shuddering,  bleeding,  thirsting,  dying  God, 
Thou  Man  of  Sorrows,  scourged  and  bruised  and  torn, 
Suffering  to  save — wilt  thou  not  judge  the  world? 
This  arm  which  held  the  children,  this  pale  hand 
That  gently  touched  the  eyelids  of  the  blind, 
And  opened  passive  to  the  cruel  nail, 
Shall  one  day  stretch  to  leftward  of  thy  throne, 
Charged  with_  the  power  that  makes  the  lightning  strong, 
And  hurl  thy  foes  to  everlasting  hell. 
And  thou,  Immaculate  Mother,  Virgin  mild, 
Thou  sevenfold-pierced,  thou  pitying,  pleading  Queen, 
Shalt  see  and  smile,  while  the  black  filthy  souls 
Sink  with  foul  weight  to  their  eternal  place, 
Purging  the  Holy  Light.     Yea,  I  have  sinned 
And  called  it  mercy.     But  I  shrink  no  more. 
To-morrow  morn  this  temptress  shall  be  safe 
Under  the  Holy  Inquisition's  key. 
He  thinks  to  wed  her,  and  defy  me  then, 
She  being  shielded  by  our  house's  name. 
But  he  shall  never  wed  her.     I  have  said. 

The  time  is  come.     Exurge,  Domine, 
Judica  causam  tuam.     Let  thy  foes 
Be  driven  as  smoke  before  the  wind, 
And  melt  like  wax  upon  the  furnace  lip! 

.  A  large  chamber  rich///  furnished  opening  on  a  terrace- 
garden,  the  trees  visible  through  the  window  in  faint  moon- 
light. Flowers  hanging  about  the  iritnlow,  lit  itp  by  the 
tapers.  The  casket  of  'jewels  open  on  the  table.  The  gold 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  93 

necklace  lying  near.     FEDALMA,  splendidly  dressed  and 
adorned  with  pearls  and  rubies,  is  walking  up  and  down, 

So  soft  a  night  was  never  made  for  sleep, 

But  for  the  waking  of  the  finer  sense 

To  every  murmuring  and  gentle  sound, 

To  subtlest  odors,  pulses,  visitings 

That  touch  our  frames  with  wings  too  delicate 

To  be  discerned  amid  the  blare  of  day. 

(She  pauses  near  the  window  to  gather  some  jasmine : 

then  walks  again.) 

Surely  these  flowers  keep  happy  watch — their  breath 
Is  their  fond  memory  of  the  loving  light. 
I  often  rue  the  hours  I  lose  in  sleep : 
It  is  a  bliss  too  brief,  only  to  see 
This  glorious  world,  to  hear  the  voice  of  love, 
To  feel  the  touch,  the  breath  of  tenderness, 
And  then  to  rest  as  from  a  spectacle. 
I  need  the  curtained  stillness  of  the  night 
To  live  through  all  my  happy  hours  again 
With  more  selection — cull  them  quite  away 
From  blemished  moments.     Then  in  loneliness 
The  face  that  bent  before  me  in  the  day 
Eises  in  its  own  light,  more  vivid  seems 
Painted  upon  the  dark,  and  ceaseless  glows 
With  sweet  solemnity  of  gazing  love, 
Till  like  the  heavenly  blue  it  seems  to  grow 
Nearer,  more  kindred,  and  more  cherishing, 
Mingling  with  all  my  being.     Then  the  words, 
The  tender  low-toned  words  come  back  again, 
With  repetition  welcome  as  the  chime 
Of  softly  hurrying  brooks — "  My  only  love — 
My  love  while  life  shall  last— my  own  Fedalma!  " 
Oh  it  is  mine — the  joy  that  once  has  been! 
Poor  eager  hope  is  but  a  stammerer, 
Must  listen  dumbly  to  great  memory, 
Who  makes  our  bliss  the  sweeter  by  her  telling. 

(She  pauses  a  moment  musingly.) 
But  that  dumb  hope  is  still  a  sleeping  guard 


94  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Whose  quiet  rhythmic  breath  saves  me  from  dread 

In  this  fair  paradise.     For  if  the  earth 

Broke  off  with  flower-fringed  edge,  visibly  sheer, 

Leaving  no  footing  for  my  forward  step 

But  empty  blackness  .  .  . 

Nay,  there  is  no  fear — 

They  will  renew  themselves,  day  and  my  joy, 
And  all  that  past  which  is  securely  mine, 
Will  be  the  hidden  root  that  nourishes 
Our  still  unfolding,  ever-ripening  love ! 

(  While  she  is  littering  the  last  words,  a  little  bird  falls 

softly  on  the  floor  behind  her  ;  she  hears  the  light 

sound  of  its  fall,  and  turns  round .) 
Did  something  enter?  .  .  . 

Yes,  this  little  bird  .  .  . 

(She  lifts  it.) 

Dead  and  yet  warm ;  '  twas  seeking  sanctuary, 
And  died,  perhaps  of  fright,  at  the  altar  foot. 
Stay,  there  is  something  tied  beneath  the  wing ! 
A  strip  of  linen,  streaked  with  blood — what  blood? 
The  streaks  are  written  words— are  sent  to  me — 

0  God,  are  sent  to  me !     Dear  child,  Fedalma, 
Be  brave,  give  no  alarm — your  Father  comes  ! 

(She  lets  the  bird  fall  again. ) 
My  Father  .  .  .  comes  .   .   .  my  Father  .   .  . 

(She  turns  in  quivering  expectation  toward  the  win- 
dow. There  is  perfect  stillness  a  few  moments  until 
ZABCA  appears  at  the  window.  He  enters  quickly 
and  noiselessly  ;  then  stands  still  at  his  full  height, 
and  at  a  distance  from  FED  ALMA.) 

FED  ALMA  (in  a  low  distinct  tone  of  terror). 

It  is  he ! 

1  said  his  fate  had  laid  its  hold  on  mine. 

ZARCA  (advancing  a  step  or  two). 
You  know,  then,  who  I  am? 

FEDALMA. 

The  prisoner — 
He  whom  I  saw  in  fetters — and  this  necklace.  .  ,  . 


My  father  . . .  comes  ...  my  father."— Page  94. 

Eliot— Spanish  Gypsy. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  95 

ZABCA. 

Was  played  with  by  your  fingers  when  it  hung 
About  my  neck,  full  fifteen  years  ago. 

FEDALMA  (looking  at  the  necklace  and  handling  it,  then 
speaking,  as  if  unconsciously)* 

Full  fifteen  years  ago! 

ZABCA. 

The  very  day 

I  lost  you,  when  you  wore  a  tiny  gown 
Of  scarlet  cloth  with  golden  broidery : 
'Twas  clasped  in  front  by  coins — two  golden  coins. 
The  one  upon  the  left  was  split  in  two 
Across  the  king's  head  right  from  brow  to  nape, 
A  dent  i'  the  middle  nicking  in  the  cheek. 
You  see  I  know  the  little  gown  by  heart. 

FED  ALMA  (growing  paler  and  more  tremulous). 

Yes.     It  is  true — I  have  the  gown — the  clasps — 
The  braid — sore  tarnished: — it  is  long  ago! 

ZABCA. 

But  yesterday  to  me ;  for  till  to-day 
I  saw  you  always  as  that  little  child. 
And  when  they  took  my  necklace  from  me,  still 
Your  fingers  played  about  it  on  my  neck,' 
And  still  those  buds  of  fingers  on  your  feet 
Caught  in  its  meshes  as  you  seemed  to  climb 
Up  to  my  shoulder.     You  were  not  stolen  all. 
You  had  a  double  life  fed  from  my  heart.  .  .  . 

(FED  ALMA,  letting  fall  the  necklace,  makes  an  impul- 
sive movement  toward  him,  ivith  outstretched  hands. ) 
The  Gypsy  father  loves  his  children  well. 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT- 

FED  ALMA  (shrinking,  trembling,  and  letting  fall  her 
hands) . 

How  came  it  that  you  sought  me — no — I  mean 
How  came  it  that  you  kuew  me — that  you  lost  me? 

ZARCA  (standing  perfectly  still). 

Poor  child!  I  see — your  father  and  his  rags 
Are  welcome  as  the  piercing  wintry  wind 
Within  this  silken  chamber.     It  is  well. 
I  would  not  have  a  child  who  stooped  to  feign, 
And  aped  a  sudden  love.     Better,  true  hate. 

FED  ALMA  (raising  her  eyes  toward  him,  with  a  flash 
of  admiration,  and  looking  at  him  fixedly) . 

Father,  how  was  it  that  we  lost  each  other? 

ZAROA. 

I  lost  you  as  a  man  may  lose  a  gem 

Wherein  he  has  compressed  his  total  wealth, 

Or  the  right  hand  whose  cunning  makes  him  great: 

I  lost  you  by  a  trivial  accident. 

Marauding  Spaniards,  sweeping  like  a  storm 

Over  a  spot  within  the  Moorish  bounds, 

Near  where  our  camp  lay,  doubtless  snatched  you  up, 

When  Zind,  your  nurse,  as  she  confessed,  was  urged 

By  burning  thirst  to  wander  toward  the  stream, 

And  leave  you  on  the  sand  some  paces  off 

Playing  with  pebbles,  while  she  dog-like  lapped. 

'Twas  so  I  lost  you — never  saw  you  more 

Until  to-day  I  saw  you  dancing!     Saw 

The  daughter  of  the  Zincalo  make  sport 

For  those  who  spit  upon  her  people's  name. 

FED  ALMA'  (vehemently). 

It  was  not  sport.     What  if  the  world  looked  on? — 
I  danced  for  joy — for  love  of  all  the  world. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  97 

But  when  you  looked  at  me  my  joy  was  stabbed — 
Stabbed  with  your  pain.    I  wondered  .  .  .  now  I  know  .  .  . 
It  was  my  father's  pain. 

(She  pauses  a  moment  with  eyes  bent  downward, 
during  which  ZAKCA  examines  her  face.  Then  she 
says  quickly,) 

How  were  you  sure 
At  once  I  was  your  child  ? 

ZARCA. 

I  had  witness  strong 
As  any  Cadi  needs,  before  I  saw  you ! 
I  fitted  all  my  memories  with  the  chat 
Of  one  named  Juan — one  whose  rapid  talk 
Showers  like  the  blossoms  from  a  light-twigged  shrub, 
If  you  but  cough  beside  it.     I  learned  all 
The  story  of  your  Spanish  nurture — all 
The  promise  of  your  fortune.     When  at  last 
I  fronted  you,  my  little  maid  full-grown, 
Belief  was  turned  to  vision :  then  I  saw 
That  she  whom  Spaniards  called  the  bright  Fedalma— 
The  little  red-f rocked  foundling  three  years  old — 
Grown  to  such  perfectness  the  Spanish  Duke 
Had  wooed  her  for  his  Duchess — was  the  child, 
Sole  offspring  of  my  flesh,  that  Lambra  bore 
One  hour  before  the  Christian,  hunting  us, 
Hurried  her  on  to  death.     Therefore  I  sought — 
Therefore  I  come  to  claim  you — claim  my  child, 
Not  from  the  Spaniard,  not  from  him  who  robbed, 
But  from  herself. 

(FEDALMA  has  gradually  approached  close  to  ZARCA/ 

and  with  a  low  sob  sinks  on  her  knees  before  him. 

He  stoops  to  kiss  her  brow,  and  lays  his  hands  on 

her  head.) 

ZARCA  (with  solemn  tenderness). 

Then  my  child  owns  her  father? 
1    ' 


98  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

FEDALMA. 

Father!  yes. 

I  will  eat  dust  before  I  will  deny 
The  flesh  I  spring  from. 

ZARCA. 

There  my  daughter  spoke. 
Away  then  with  these  rubies! 

(He  seizes  the  circlet  of  rubies  and  flings  it  on  the 
ground.  FED  ALMA,  starting  from  the  ground  with 
strong  emotion,  shrinks  backward.} 

Such  a  crown 

Is  infamy  around  Zincala's  brow. 
It  is  her  people's  blood,  decking  her  shame. 

FED  ALMA  (after  a  moment,  slowly  and  distinctly,  as 
if  accepting  a  doom) . 

Then  ...  I  was  born  ...  a  Zincala? 

ZARCA. 

Of  a  blood 
Unmixed  as  virgin  wine- juice. 

FEDALMA. 

Of  a  race 
More  outcast  and  despised  than  Moor  or  Jew? 

ZARCA. 

Yes :  wanderers  whom  no  God  took  knowledge  of 
To  give  them  laws,  to  fight  for  them,  or  blight 
Another  race  to  make  them  ampler  room; 
Who  have  no  Whence  or  Whither  in  their  souls. 
No  dimmest  lore  of  glorious  ancestors 
To  make  a  common  hearth  for  piety. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  99 


FED  ALMA. 

A  race  that  lives  on  prey  as  foxes  do 

With  stealthy,  petty  rapine :  so  despised, 

It  is  not  persecuted,  only  spurned, 

Crushed  underfoot,  warred  on  by  chance  like  rats, 

Or  swarming  flies,  or  reptiles  of  the  sea 

Dragged  in  the  net  unsought,  and  flung  far  off, 

To  perish  as  they  may? 

ZAKCA. 

You  paint  us  well. 

So  abject  are  the  men  whose  blood  we  share: 
Untutored,  unbefriended,  unendowed; 
No  favorites  of  heaven  or  of  men. 
Therefore  I  cling  to  them !     Therefore  no  lure 
Shall  draw  me  to  disown  them,  or  forsake 
The  meagre  wandering  herd  that  lows  for  help 
And  needs  me  for  its  guide,  to  seek  my  pasture 
Among  the  well-fed  beeves  that  graze  at  will. 
Because  our  race  has  no  great  memories, 
I  will  so  live,  it  shall  remember  me 
For  deeds  of  such  divine  beneficence 
As  rivers  have,  that  teach  men  what  is  good 
By  blessing  them.     I  have  been  schooled — have  caught 
Lore  from  the  Hebrew,  deftness  from  the  Moor — 
Know  the  rich  heritage,  the  milder  life, 
Of  nations  fathered  by  a  mighty  Past; 
But  were  our  race  accursed  (as  they  who  make 
Good  luck  a  god  count  all  unlucky  men) 
I  would  espouse  their  curse  sooner  than  take 
My  gifts  from  brethren  naked  of  all  good, 
And  lend  them  to  the  rich  for  usury. 

(FED ALMA  again  advances,  and  putting  forth  her 
right  hand  grasps  ZABCA'S  left.  He  places  his 
other  hand  on  her  shoulder.  They  stand  so,  looking 
at  each  other.) 


100  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


ZARCA. 

And  you,  my  child?  are  you  of  other  mind, 
Choosing  forgetfulness,  hating  the  truth 
That  says  you  are  akin  to  needy  men? — 
Wishing  your  father  were  some  Christian  Duke, 
Who  could  hang  Gypsies  when  their  task  was  done, 
While  you,  his  daughter,  were  not  bound  to  care? 

FED  ALMA  (in  a  troubled  eager  voice). 

No,  I  should  always  care — I  cared  for  you — 
For  all,  before  I  dreamed  .... 

ZARCA. 

Before  you  dreamed 

That  you  were  born  a  Zincala — your  flesh 
Stamped  with  your  people's  faith. 

FED  ALMA  (bitterly). 

The  Gypsies'  faith? 
Men  say  they  have  none. 


ZARCA. 

Oh,  it  is  a  faith 

Taught  by  no  priest,  but  by  their  beating  hearts: 
Faith  to  each  other :  the  fidelity 
Of  fellow-wanderers  in  a  desert  place 
Who  share  the  same  dire  thirst,  and  therefore  share 
The  scanty  water :  the  fidelity 
Of  men  whose  pulses  leap  with  kindred  fire, 
Who  in  the  flash  of  eyes,  the  clasp  of  hands, 
The  speech  that  even  in  lying  tells  the  truth 
Of  heritage  inevitable  as  birth, 
Nay,  in  the  silent  bodily  presence  feel 
The  mystic  stirring  of  a  common  life 
Which  makes  the  many  one :  fidelity 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  101 

To  the  consecrating  oath  our  sponsor  Fate 

Made  through  our  infant  breath  when  we  were  born 

The  fellow-heirs  of  that  small  island,  Life, 

Where  we  must  dig  and  sow  and  reap  with  brothers. 

Fear  thou  that  oath,  my  daughter — nay,  not  fear, 

But  love  it ;  for  the  sanctity  of  oaths 

Lies  not  in  Jigbtuing  that  avenges  them, 

But  in  the  injury  wrought  by  broken  bonds 

And  in  the  garnered  good  of  human  trust. 

And  you  have  sworn — even  with  your  infant  breath 

You  too  were  pledged  .... 

FEDALMA  (letting  go  ZARCA'S  hand,  and  sinking  back- 
ward on  her  knees  with  bent  head,  as  if  before  some  im* 
pending  crushing  weight). 

To  what?  what  have  I  sworn? 

ZABCA. 

To  take  the  heirship  of  the  G-ypsy's  child: 

The  child  of  him  who,  being  chief,  will  be 

The  savior  of  his  tribe,  or  if  he  fail 

Will  choose  to  fail  rather  than  basely  win 

The  prize  of  renegades.     Nay,  will  not  choose — 

Is  there  a  choice  for  strong  souls  to  be  weak? 

For  men  erect  to  crawl  like  hissing  snakes? 

I  choose  not — I  am  Zarca.     Let  him  choose 

Who  halts  and  wavers,  having  appetite 

To  feed  on  garbage.     You,  my  child — are  you 

Halting  and  wavering? 

FEDAXMA  (raising  her  head). 

Say  what  is  my  task. 

ZARCA. 

To  be  the  angel  of  a  homeless  tribe : 

To  help  me  bless  a  race  taught  by  no  prophet 

And  make  their  name,  now  but  a  badge  of  scorn, 


102  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

A  glorious  banner  floating  in  their  midst, 

Stirring  the  air  they  breathe  with  impulses 

Of  generous  pride,  exalting  fellowship 

Until  it  soars  to  magnanimity. 

I'll  guide  my  brethren  forth  to  their  new  land, 

Where  they  shall  plant  and  sow  and  reap  their  own, 

Serving  each  other's  needs,  and  so  be  spurred 

To  skill  in  all  the  arts  that  succor  life; 

Where  we  may  kindle  our  first  altar-fire 

From  settled  hearths,  and  call  our  Holy  Place 

The  hearth  that  binds  us  in  one  family. 

That  land  awaits  them :  they  await  their  chief — 

Me  who  am  prisoned.     All  depends  on  you. 

FED  ALMA  (rising  to  her  full  height,  and  looking  sol' 
emnly  at  ZAKCA). 

Father,  your  child  is  ready !     She  will  not 

Forsake  her  kindred;  she  will  brave  all  scorn 

Sooner  than  scorn  herself.     Let  Spaniards  all, 

Christians,  Jews,  Moors,  shoot  out  the  lip  and  say, 

"  Lo,  the  first  hero  in  a  tribe  of  thieves. " 

Is  it  not  written  so  of  them?     They,  too, 

Were  slaves,  lost,  wandering,  sunk  beneath  a  curse, 

Till  Moses,  Christ,  and  Mahomet  were  born, 

Till  beings  lonely  in  their  greatness  lived, 

And  lived  to  save  their  people.     Father,  listen. 

The  Duke  to-morrow  weds  me  secretly : 

But  straight  he  will  present  me  as  his  wifo 

To  all  his  household,  cavaliers  and  dames 

And  noble  pages.     Then  1  will  declare 

Before  them  all,  "  I  am  his  daughter,  his, 

The  Gypsy's,  owner  of  this  golden  badge." 

Then  I  shall  win  your  freedom ;  then  the  Duke — 

Why,  he  will  be  your  son !— will  send  }rou  forth 

With  aid  and  honors.     Then,  before  all  eyes 

I'll  clasp  this  badge  on  you,  and  lift  my  brow 

For  you  to  kiss  it,  saying  by  that  sign, 

"  I  glory  in  my  father. "     This,  to-morrow. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  103 

ZARCA. 

A  woman's  dream — who  thinks  by  smiling  well 
To  ripen  figs  in  frost.     What !  marry  first, 
And  then  proclaim  your  birth?     Enslave  yourself 
To  use  your  freedom?     Share  another's  name, 
Then  treat  it  as  you  will?     How  will  that  tune 
Eing  in  your  bridegroom's  ears — that  sudden  song 
Of  triumph  in  your  Gypsy  father? 

FED  ALMA  (discouraged). 

Nay, 

I  meant  not  so.     We  marry  hastily — 
Yet  there  is  time — there  will  be: — in  less  space 
Than  he  can  take  to  look  at  me,  I'll  speak 
And  tell  him  all.     Oh,  I  am  not  afraid! 
His  love  for  me  is  stronger  than  all  hate ; 
Nay,  stronger  than  my  love,  which  cannot  sway 
Demons  that  haunt  me — tempt  me  to  rebel. 
Were  he  Fedalma  and  I  Silva,  he 
Could  love  confession,  prayers,  and  tonsured  monks 
If  my  soul  craved  them.     He  will  never  hate 
The  race  that  bore  him  what  he  loves  the  most. 
I  shall  but  do  more  strongly  what  I  will, 
Having  his  will  to  help  me.     And  to-morrow, 
Father,  as  surely  as  this  heart  shall  beat, 
You — every  Gypsy  chained,  shall  be  set  free. 

ZARCA  (coming  nearer  to  her,  and  laying  his  hand  on 
her  shoulder) . 

Too  late,  too  poor  a  service  that,  my  child! 

Not  so  the  woman  who  would  save  her  tribe 

Must  help  its  heroes — not  by  wordy  breath, 

By  easy  prayers  strong  in  a  lover's  ear, 

By  showering  wreaths  and  sweets  and  wafted  kisses, 

And  then,  when  all  the  smiling  work  is  done, 

Turning  to  rest  upon  her  down  again, 

And  whisper  languid  pity  for  her  race 


104  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Upon  the  bosom  of  her  alien  spouse. 

Not  to  such  petty  m/ercies  as  can  fall 

'Twixt  stitch  and  stitch  of  silken  broidery, 

Such  miracles  of  mitred  saints  who  pause 

Beneath  their  gilded  canopy  to  heal 

A  man  sun-stricken :  not  to  such  trim  merit 

As  soils  its  dainty  shoes  for  charity 

And  simpers  meekly  at  the  pious  stain, 

But  never  trod  with  naked  bleeding  feet 

Where  no  man  praised  it  and  where  no  Church  blessed : 

Not  to  such  almsdeeds  fit  for  holidays 

Were  you,  my  daughter,  consecrated — bound 

By  laws  that,  breaking,  you  will  dip  your  bread 

In  murdered  brother's  blood  and  call  it  sweet — 

When  you  were  born  beneath  the  dark  man's  tent, 

And  lifted  up  in  sight  of  all  your  tribe, 

Who  greeted  you  with  shouts  of  loyal  joy, 

Sole  offspring  of  the  chief  in  whom  they  trust 

As  in  the  oft-tried  never-failing  flint 

They  strike  their  fire  from.     Other  work  is  yours. 

FEDALMA. 
What  work? — what  is  it  that  you  ask  of  me? 

ZARCA. 

A  work  as  pregnant  as  the  act  of  men 

Who  set  their  ships  aflame  and  spring  to  land, 

A  fatal  deed  .... 

FEDALMA. 

Stay !  never  utter  it ! 
If  it  can  part  my  lot  from  his  whose  love 
Has  chosen  me.     Talk  not  of  oaths,  of  birth, 
Of  men  as  numerous  as  the  dim  white  stars — 
As  cold  and  distant,  too,  for  my  heart's  pulse. 
No  ills  on  earth,  though  you  should  count  them  up 
With  grains  to  make  a  mountain,  can  outweigh 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  105 

For  nie,  his  ill  who  is  my  supreme  love. 
All  sorrows  else  are  but  imagined  flames, 
Making  me  shudder  at  an  unfelt  smart  j 
But  his  imagined  sorrow  is  a  tire 
That  scorches  me. 

ZAKCA. 

I  know,  I  know  it  well — 

The  first  young  passionate  wail  of  spirits  called 
To  some  great  destiny.     In  vain,  my  daughter! 
Lay  the  young  eagle  in  what  nest  you  will, 
The  cry  and  swoop  of  eagles  overhead 
Vibrate  prophetic  in  its  kindred  frame, 
And  make  it  spread  its  wings  and  poise  itself 
For  the  eagle's  flight.     Hear  what  you  have  to  do. 

(FED ALMA  stands  half  averted,  as  if  she  dreaded  the 

effect  of  his  looks  and  words.) 
My  comrades  even  now  file  off  their  chains 
In  a  low  turret  by  the  battlements, 
Where  we  were  locked  with  slight  and  sleepy  guard — 
We  who  had  files  hid  in  our  shaggy  hair, 
And  possible  ropes  that  waited  but  our  will 
In  half  our  garments.     Oh,  the  Moorish  blood 
Runs  thick  and  warm  to  us,  though  thinned  by  chrism. 
I  found  a  friend  among  our  gaolers — one 
Who  loves  the  Gypsy  as  the  Moor's  ally. 
I  know  the  secrets  of  this  fortress.     Listen. 
Hard  by  yon  terrace  is  a  narrow  stair, 
Cut  in  the  living  rock,  and  at  one  point 
In  its  slow  straggling  course  it  branches  off 
Toward  a  low  wooden  door,  that  art  has  bossed 
To  such  unevenness,  it  seems  one  piece 
With  the  rough-hewn  rock.     Open  that  door,  it  leads 
Through  a  broad  passage  burrowed  underground 
A  good  half-mile  out  to  the  open  plain : 
Made  for  escape,  in  dire  extremity 
From  siege  or  burning,  of  the  house's  wealth 
In  women  or  in  gold.     To  find  that  door 
Needs  oue  who  knows  the  number  of  the  steps 


106  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Just  to  the  turning-point ;  to  open  it, 
Needs  one  who  knows  the  secret  of  the  bolt. 
You  have  that  secret :  you  will  ope  that  door, 
And  fly  with  us. 

FED  ALMA  (receding  a  little,  and  gathering  herself  up 
in  an  attitude  of  resolve  opposite  to  ZAKCA). 

No,  I  will  never  fly ! 
Never  forsake  that  chief  half  of  my  soul 
Where  lies  my  love.     I  swear  to  set  you  free. 
Ask  for  no  more ;  it  is  not  possible. 
Father,  my  soul  is  not  too  base  to  ring 
At  touch  of  your  great  thoughts ;  nay,  in  my  blood 
There  streams  the  sense  unspeakable  of  kind, 
As  leopard  feels  at  ease  with  leopard.     But — 
Look  at  these  hands !     You  say  when  they  were  little 
They  played  about  the  gold  upon  your  neck. 
I  do  believe-  it,  for  their  tiny  pulse 
Made  record  of  it  in  the  inmost  coil 
Of  growing  memory.     But  see  them  now ! 
Oh,  they  have  made  fresh  record ;  twined  themselves 
With  other  throbbing  hands  whose  pulses  feed 
Not  memories  6nly,  but  a  blended  life — 
Life  that  will  bleed  to  death  if  it  be  severed. 
Have  pity  on  me,  father !     Wait  the  morning ; 
Say  you  will  wait  the  morning.     I  will  win 
Your  freedom  openly :  you  shall  go  forth 
With  aid  and  honors.     Silva  will  deny 
Nought  to  my  asking  .  .  . 

ZARCA  (with  contemptuous  decision). 

Till  you  ask  him  aught 

Wherein  he  is  powerless.     Soldiers  even  now 
Murmur  against  him  that  he  risks  the  town, 
And  forfeits  all  the  prizes  of  a  foray 
To  get  his  bridal  pleasure  with  a  bride 
Too  low  for  him.     They'll  murmur  more  and  louder 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  107 

If  captives  of  our  pith  and  sinew,  fit 

For  all  the  work  the  Spaniard  hates,  are  freed — 

Now,  too,  when  Spanish  hands  are  scanty.     What, 

Turn  Gypsies  loose  instead  of  hanging  them! 

'Tis  flat  against  the  edict.     Nay,  perchance 

Murmurs  aloud  may  turn  to  silent  threats 

Of  some  well-sharpened  dagger ;  for  your  Duke 

Has  to  his  heir  a  pious  cousin,  who  deems 

The  Cross  were  better  served  if  he  were  Duke. 

Such  good  you'll  work  your  lover  by  your  prayers. 

FEDALMA. 

Then,  I  will  free  you  now !     You  shall  be  safe, 
Nor  he  be  blamed,  save  for  his  love  to  me. 
I  will  declare  what  I  have  done :  the  deed 
May  put  our  marriage  off  .... 

ZARCA. 

Ay,  till  the  time 

When  you  shall  be  a  queen  in  Africa, 
And  he  be  prince  enough  to  sue  for  you. 
You  cannot  free  us  and  come  back  to  him. 

FED  ALMA. 
And  why? 

ZARCA. 

I  would  compel  you  to  go  forth. 

FED  ALMA. 
You  tell  me  that? 

ZARCA. 

Yes,  for  I'd  have  you  choose; 
Though,  being  of  the  blood  you  are — my  blood — 
You  have  no  right  to  choose. 

FEDALMA. 

I  only  owe 
A  daughter's  debt;  I  was  not  born  a  slave. 


108  POEMS  OF  GEORGE   ELTOT. 

ZARCA. 

No,  not  a  slave ;  but  you  were  born  to  reign. 
'Tis  a  compulsion  of  a  higher  sort, 
Whose  fetters  are  the  net  invisible 
That  holds  all  life  together.     Koyal  deeds 
May  make  long  destinies  for  multitudes, 
And  you  are  called  to  do  them.     You  belong 
Not  to  the  petty  round  of  circumstance 
That  makes  a  woman's  lot,  but  to  your  tribe, 
Who  trust  in  me  and  in  my  blood  with  trust 
That  men  call  blind ;  but  it  is  only  blind 
As  unyeaned  reason  is,  that  grows  and  stirs 
Within  the  womb  of  superstition. 

FED  ALMA. 

No! 

I  belong  to  him  who  loves  me — whom  I  love — 
Who  chose  me — whom  I  chose — to  whom  I  pledged 
A  woman's  truth.     And  that  is  nature  too, 
Issuing  a  fresher  law  than  laws  of  birth. 

ZARCA. 

Unmake  yourself,  then,  from  a  Ziucala — 
Unmake  yourself  from  being  child  of  mine ! 
Take  holy  water,  cross  your  dark  skin  white; 
Eound  your  proud  eyes  to  foolish  kitten  looks ; 
Walk  mincingly,  and  smirk,  and  twitch  your  robe : 
Unmake  yourself — doff  all  the  eagle  plumes 
And  be  a  parrot,  chained  to  a  ring  that  slips 
Upon  a  Spaniard's  thumb,  at  will  of  his 
That  you  should  prattle  o'er  his  words  again! 
Get  a  small  heart  that  flutters  at  the  smiles 
Of  that  plump  penitent,  that  greedy  saint 
Who  breaks  all  treaties  in  the  name  of  God, 
Saves  souls  by  confiscation,  sends  to  heaven 
The  altar-fumes  of  burning  heretics, 
And  chaffers  with  the  Levite  for  the  goldj 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  109 

Holds  Gypsies  beasts  unfit  for  sacrifice, 
So  sweeps  them  out  like  worms  alive  or  dead. 
Go,  trail  your  gold  and  velvet  in  her  court! — 
A  conscious  Zincala,  smile  at  your  rare  luck, 
While  half  your  brethren  .... 


FED  ALMA. 

I  am  not  so  vile! 

It  is  not  to  such  mockeries  that  I  cling, 
Not  to  the  flaring  tow  of  gala-lights ; 
It  is  to  him — my  love — the  face  of  day. 

ZAKCA. 

What,  will  you  part  him  from  the  air  he  breathes, 
Never  inhale  with  him  although  you  kiss  him? 
Will  you  adopt  a  soul  without  its  thoughts, 
Or  grasp  a  life  apart  from  flesh  and  blood? 
Till  then  you  cannot  wed  a  Spanish  Duke 
And  not  wed  shame  at  mention  of  your  race, 
And  not  wed  hardness  to  their  miseries — 
Nay,  not  wed  murder.     Would  you  save  my  life 
Yet  stab  my  purpose?  maim  my  every  limb, 
Put  out  my  eyes,  and  turn  me  loose  to  feed? 
Is  that  salvation?  rather  drink  my  blood. 
That  child  of  mine  who  weds  my  enemy — 
Adores  a  God  who  took  no  heed  of  Gypsies — 
Forsakes  her  people,  leaves  their  poverty 
To  join  the  luckier  crowd  that  mocks  their  woes — 
That  child  of  mine  is  doubly  murderess, 
Murdering  her  father's  hope,  her  people's  trust. 
Such  draughts  are  mingled  in  your  cup  of  love! 
And  when  you  have  become  a  thing  so  poor, 
Your  life  is  all  a  fashion  without  law 
Save  frail  conjecture  of  a  changing  wish, 
Your  worshipped  sun,  your  smiling  face  of  day, 
Will  turn  to  cloudiness,  and  you  will  shiver 
In  your  thin  finery  of  vain  desire. 


110  POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Men  call  his  passion  madness ;  and  he,  too. 
May  learn  to  think  it  madness :  'tis  a  thought 
Of  ducal  sanity. 

FED  ALMA. 

No,  he  is  true! 

And  if  I  part  from  him  I  part  from  joy. 
Oh,  it  was  morning  with  us — I  seemed  young. 
But  now  I  know  I  am  an  aged  sorrow — 
My  people's  sorrow.     Father,  since  I  am  yours — 
Since  I  must  walk  an  unslain  sacrifice, 
Carrying  the  knife  within  me,  quivering — 
Put  cords  upon  me,  drag  me  to  the  doom 
My  birth  has  laid  upon  me.     See,  I  kneel: 
I  cannot  will  to  go. 

ZARCA. 

Will  then  to  stay ! 

Say  you  will  take  your  better,  painted  such 
By  blind  desire,  and  choose  the  hideous  worse 
For  thousands  who  were  happier  but  for  you. 
My  thirty  followers  are  assembled  now 
Without  this  terrace :  I  your  father  wait 
That  you  may  lead  us  forth  to  liberty — 
Restore  me  to  my  tribe — five  hundred  men 
Whom  I  alone  can  save,  alone  can  rule, 
And  plant  them  as  a  mighty  nation's  seed. 
Why,  vagabonds  who  clustered  round  one  man, 
Their  voice  of  God,  their  prophet  and  their  king, 
Twice  grew  to  empire  on  the  teeming  shores 
Of  Africa,  and  sent  new  royalties 
To  feed  afresh  the  Arab  sway  in  Spain. 
My  vagabonds  are  a  seed  more  generous, 
Quick  as  the  serpent,  loving  as  the  hound, 
And  beautiful  as  disinherited  gods. 
They  have  a  promised  land  beyond  the  sea : 
There  I  may  lead  them,  raise  my  standard,  call 
The  wandering  Zmcali  to  that  new  home, 
And  make  a  nation — bring  light,  order,  law, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  Ill 

Instead  of  chaos.     You,  my  only  heir, 
Are  called  to  reign  for  me  when  I  am  gone. 
Now  choose  your  deed :  to  save  or  to  destroy. 
You,  a  born  Zincala,  you,  fortunate 
Above  your  fellows — you  who  hold  a  curse 
Or  blessing  in  the  hollow  of  your  hand — 
Say  you  will  loose  that  hand  from  fellowship, 
Let  go  the  rescuing  rope,  hurl  all  the  tribes, 
Children  and  countless  beings  yet  to  come, 
Down  from  the  upward  path  of  light  and  joy, 
Back  to  the  dark  and  marshy  wilderness 
Where  life  is  nought  but  blind  tenacity 
Of  that  which  is.     Say  you  will  curse  your  race! 

FEDALMA  (rising  and  stretching  out  her  arms  in 
deprecation). 

No,  no — I  will  not  say  it — I  will  go ! 
Father,  I  choose !     I  will  not  take  a  heaven 
Haunted  by  shrieks  of  far-off  misery. 
This  deed  and  I  have  ripened  with  the  hours : 
It  is  a  part  of  me — a  wakened  thought 
That,  rising  like  a  giant,  masters  me, 
And  grows  into  a  doom.     O  mother  life, 
That  seemed  to  nourish  me  so  tenderly, 
Even  in  the  womb  you  vowed  me  to  the  fire, 
Hung  on  my  soul  the  burden  of  men's  hopes, 
And  pledged  me  to  redeem ! — I'll  pay  the  debt. 
You  gave  me  strength  that  I  should  pour  it  all 
Into  this  anguish.     I  can  never  shrink 
Back  into  bliss — my  heart  has  grown  too  big 
With  things  that  might  be.     Father,  I  will  go. 
I  will  strip  off  these  gems.     Some  happier  bride 
Shall  wear  them,  since  Fedalma  would  be  dowered 
With  nought  but  curses,  dowered  with  misery 
Of  men — of  women,  who  have  hearts  to  bleed 
As  hers  is  bleeding. 

(She  sinks  on  a  seat,  and  begins  to  take  off  her  jewels.) 
Now,  good  gems,  we  part. 


112  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Speak  of  me  always  tenderly  to  Silva. 

(She  pauses,  turning  to  ZABCA.) 

0  father,  will  the  women  of  our  tribe 
Suffer  as  I  do,  in  the  years  to  come 
When  you  have  made  them  great  in  Africa? 
Redeemed  from  ignorant  ills  only  to  feel 

A  conscious  woe?     Then — is  it  worth  the  pains? 

Were  it  not  better  when  we  reach  that  shore 

To  raise  a  funeral-pile  and  perish  all, 

So  closing  up  a  myriad  avenues 

To  misery  yet  unwrought?     My  soul  is  faint — 

Will  these  sharp  pangs  buy  any  certain  good? 

ZAROA. 

Nay,  never  falter :  no  great  deed  is  done 

By  falterers  who  ask  for  certainty. 

No  good  is  certain,  but  the  steadfast  mind, 

The  undivided  will  to  seek  the  good : 

'Tis  that  compels  the  elements,  and  wrings 

A  human  music  from  the  indifferent  air. 

The  greatest  gift  the  hero  leaves  his  race 

Is  to  have  been  a  hero.     Say  we  fail ! — 

We  feed  the  high  tradition  of  the  world, 

And  leave  our  spirit  in  our  children's  breasts. 

FED  ALMA  (unclasping  her  jewelled  belt,  and  throwing 
it  down). 

Yes,  say  that  we  shall  fail !     I  would  not  count 
On  aught  but  being  faithful.     I  will  take 
This  yearning  self  of  mine  and  strangle  it. 

1  will  not  be  half-hearted :  never  yet 
Fedalma  did  aught  with  a  wavering  souL 

Die,  my  young  joy — die,  all  my  hungry  hopes — 
The  milk  you  cry  for  from  the  breast  of  life 
Is  thick  with  curses.     Oh,  all  fatness  here 
Snatches  its  meat  from  leanness — feeds  on  graves. 
I  will  seek  nothing  but  to  shun  base  joy. 
The  saints  were  coward  who  stood  by  to  see 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  113 

Christ  crucified :  they  should  have  flung  themselves 
Upon  the  Roman  spears,  and  died  in  vain — 
The  grandest  death,  to  die  in  vain — for  love  • 
Greater  than  sways  the  forces  of  the  world! 
That  death  shall  be  my  bridegroom.     I  will  wed 
The  curse  that  blights  my  people.     Father,  cornel 

ZABCA. 

No  curse  has  fallen  on  us  till  we  cease 
To  help  each  other.     You,  if  you  are  false 
To  that  first  fellowship,  lay  on  the  curse. 
But  write  now  to  the  Spaniard :  briefly  say 
That  I,  your  father,  came ;  that  you  obeyed 
The  fate  which  made  you  Zincala,  as  his  fate 
Made  him  a  Spanish  duke  and  Christian  knight. 
He  must  not  think  .... 

FEDALMA. 

Yes,  I  will  write,  but  he — 
Oh,  he  would  know  it — he  would  never  think 
The  chain  that  dragged  me  from  him  could  be  aught 
But  scorching  iron  entering  in  my  soul. 

(She  writes. ) 

Silva,  sole  love — he  came — my  father  came. 
I  am  the  daughter  of  the  Gypsy  chief 
Who  means  to  be  the  Saviour  of  our  tribe. 
He  calls  on  me  to  live  for  his  great  end. 
To  live  ?  nay,  die  for  it.     Fedalma  dies 
In  leaving  Silva :  all  that  lives  henceforth 

Is  the  poor  Zmcala. 

(She  rises.*) 
Father,  now  I  go 
To  wed  my  people's  lot. 

ZABCA. 

To  wed  a  crown. 

Our  people's  lowly  lot  we  will  make  royal — 
Give  it  a  country,  homes,  and  monuments 
8 


114  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Held  sacred  through  the  lofty  memories 

That  we  shall  leave  behind  us.     Come,  my  Queen  I 

FED  ALMA. 

Stay,  my  betrothal  ring! — one  kiss — farewell! 
0  love,  you  were  my  crown.  ~  No  other  crown 
Is  aught  but  thorns  on  my  poor  woman's  brow. 


BOOK  H. 

SILVA  was  marching  homeward  while  the  moon 

Still  shed  mild  brightness  like  the  far-off  hope 

Of  those  pale  virgin  lives  that  wait  and  pray. 

The  stars  thin-scattered  made  the  heavens  large, 

Bending  in  slow  procession ;  in  the  east 

Emergent  from  the  dark  waves  of  the  hills, 

Seeming  a  little  sister  of  the  moon, 

Glowed  Venus  all  unquenched.     Silva,  in  haste, 

Exultant  and  yet  anxious,  urged  his  troop 

To  quick  and  quicker  march :  he  had  delight 

In  forward-stretching  shadows,  in  the  gleams 

That  travelled  on  the  armor  of  the  van, 

And  in  the  many-hoofed  sound :  in  all  that  told 

Of  hurrying  movement  to  o'ertake  his  thought 

Already  in  Bedmarj  close  to  Fedalma, 

Leading  her  forth  a  wedded  bride,  fast  vowed, 

Defying  Father  Isidor.     His  glance 

Took  in  with  much  content  the  priest  who  rode 

Firm  in  his  saddle,  stalwart  and  broad-backed, 

Crisp-curled,  and  comfortably  secular, 

Right  in  the  front  of  him.     But  by  degrees 

Stealthily  faint,  disturbing  with  slow  loss 

That  showed  not  yet  full  promise  of  a  gain, 

The  light  was  changing,  and  the  watch  intense 

Of  moon  and  stars  seemed  weary,  shivering : 

The  sharp  wh'ite  brightness  passed  from  off  the  rocks 

Carrying  the  shadows :  beauteous  Night  lay  dead 

Under  the  pall  of  twilight,  and  the  love-star 

Sickened  and  shrank.     The  troop  was  winding  now 

Upward  to  where  a  pass  between  the  peaks 

Seemed  like  an  opened  gate — to  Silva  seemed 


116  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

An  outer  gate  of  heaven,  for  through  that  pass 

They  entered  his  own  valley,  near  Bedmar. 

Sudden  within  the  pass  a  horseman  rose, 

One  instant  dark  upon  the  banner  pale 

Of  rock-cut  sky,  the  next  in  motion  swift 

With  hat  and  plume  high  shaken — ominous. 

Silva  had  dreamed  his  future,  and  the  dream 

Held  not  this  messenger.     A  minute  more — 

It  was  his  friend  Don  Alvar  whom  he  saw 

Keining  his  horse  up,  face  to  face  with  him, 

Sad  as  the  twilight,  all  his  clothes  ill-girt — 

As  if  he  had  been  roused  to  see  one  die, 

And  brought  the  news  to  him  whom  death  had  robbed. 

Silva  believed  he  saw  the  worst — the  town 

Stormed  by  the  infidel — or,  could  it  be 

Fedalma  dragged? — no,  there  was  not  yet  time. 

But  with  a  marble  face,  he  only  said, 

"What  evil,  Alvar?" 

"  What  this  paper  speaks. " 
It  was  Fedalma's  letter  folded  close 
And  mute  as  yet  for  Silva.     But  his  friend 
Keeping  it  still  sharp-pinched  against  his  breast, 
"  It  will  smite  hard,  my  lord :  a  private  grief. 
I  would  not  have  you  pause  to  read  it  here. 
Let  us  ride  on — we  use  the  moments  best, 
Reaching  the  town  with  speed.     The  smaller  ill 
Is  that  our  Gypsy  prisoners  have  escaped." 
"  No  more.     Give  me  the  paper — nay,  I  know — 
'Twill  make  no  difference.     Bid  them  march  on  faster." 
Silva  pushed  forward — held  the  paper  crushed 
Close  in  his  right.     "  They  have  imprisoned  her," 
He  said  to  Alvar  in  low,  hard-cut  tones, 
Like  a  dream-speech  of  slumbering  revenge. 
"  No — when  they  came  to  fetch  her  she  was  gone." 
Swift  as  the  right  touch  on  a  spring,  that  word 
Made  Silva  read  the  letter.     She  was  gone ! 
But  not  into  locked  darkness — only  gone 
Into  free  air — where  he  might  find  her  yet. 
The  bitter  loss  had  triumph  in  it — what! 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  117 

They  would  have  seized  her  with  their  holy  claws. 
The  Prior's  sweet  morsel  of  despotic  hate 
Was  snatched  from  off  his  lips.     This  misery 
Had  yet  a  taste  of  joy. 

But  she  was  gone! 

The  sun  had  risen,  and  in  tho  castle  walls 
The  light  grew  strong  and  stronger.     Silva  walked 
Through  the  long  corridor  where  dimness  yet 
Cherished  a  lingering,  flickering,  dying  hope : 
Fedalma  still  was  there — he  could  not  see 
The  vacant  place  that  once  her  presence  filled. 
Can  we  believe  that  the  dear  dead  are  gone? 
Love  in  sad  weeds  forgets  the  funeral  day, 
Opens  the  chamber  door  and  almost  smiles — 
Then  sees  the  sunbeams  pierce  athwart  the  bed 
Where  the  pale  face  is  not.     So  Silva' s  joy, 
Like  the  sweet  habit  of  caressing  hands 
That  seek  the  memory  of  another  hand, 
Still  lived  on  fitfully  in  spite  of  words, 
And,  numbing  thought  with  vague  illusion,  dulled 
The  slow  and  steadfast  beat  of  certainty. 
But  in  the  rooms  inexorable  light 
Streamed  through  the  open  window  where  she  fled, 
Streamed  on  the  belt  and  coronet  thrown  down — 
Mute  witnesses — sought  out  the  typic  ring 
That  sparkled  on  the  crimson,  solitary, 
Wounding  him  like  a  word.     0  hateful  light! 
It  filled  the  chambers  with  her  absence,  glared 
On  all  the  motionless  things  her  hand  had  touched, 
Motionless  all — save  where  old  Inez  lay 
Sunk  on  the  floor  holding  her  rosary, 
Making  its  shadow  tremble  with  her  fear. 
And  Silva  passed  her  by  because  she  grieved: 
It  was  the  lute,  the  gems,  the  pictured  heads, 
He  longed  to  crush,  because  they  made  no  sign 
But  of  insistence  that  she  was  not  there, 
She  who  had  filled  his  sight  and  hidden  them. 
He  went  forth  on  the  terrace  tow'rd  the  stairs, 
Saw  the  rained  petals  of  the  cistus  flowers 


118  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Crushed  by  large  feet ;  but  on  one  shady  spot 

Far  down  the  steps,  where  dampness  made  a  home, 

He  saw  a  footprint  delicate-slippered,  small, 

So  dear  to  him,  he  searched  for  sister-prints, 

Searched  in  the  rock-hewn  passage  with  a  lamp 

For  other  trace  of  her,  and  found  a  glove; 

But  not  Fedalma's.     It  was  Juan's  glove, 

Tasselled,  perfumed,  embroidered  with  his  name, 

A  gift  of  dames.     Then  Juan,  too,  was  gone? 

Full-mouthed  conjecture,  hurrying  through  the  town, 

Had  spread  the  tale  already :  it  was  he 

That  helped  the  Gypsies'  flight.     He  talked  and  sang 

Of  nothing  but  the  Gypsies  and  Fedalma. 

He  drew  the  threads  together,  wove  the  plan ; 

Had  lingered  out  by  moonlight,  had  been  seen 

Strolling,  as  was  his  wont,  within  the  walls, 

Humming  his  ditties.     So  Don  Alvar  told, 

Conveying  outside  rumor.     But  the  Duke, 

Making  of  haughtiness  a  visor  closed, 

Would  show  no  agitated  front  in  quest 

Of  small  disclosures.     What  her  writing  bore 

Had  been  enough.     He  knew  that  she  was  gone, 

Knew  why. 

"  The  Duke, "  some  said,  "  will  send  a  force, 
Retake  the  prisoners,  and  bring  back  his  bride." 
But  others,  winking,  "  Nay,  her  wedding  dress 
Would  be  the  san-benito.     'Tis  a  fight 
Between  the  Duke  and  Prior.     Wise  bets  will  choose 
The  churchman :  he's  the  iron,  and  the  Duke  .  .  .  ." 
"  Is  a  fine  piece  of  pottery, "  said  mine  host, 
Softening  the  sarcasm  with  a  bland  regret. 

There  was  the  thread  that  in  the  new-made  knot 
Of  obstinate  circumstance  seemed  hardest  drawn, 
Vexed  most  the  sense  of  Silva,  in  these  hours 
Of  fresh  and  angry  pain — there,  in  that  fight 
Against  a  foe  whose  sword  was  magical, 
His  shield  invisible  terrors — against  a  foe 
Who  stood  as  if  upon  the  smoking  mount 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY  119 

Ordaining  plagues.     All  else,  Fedalma's  flight, 

The  father's  claim,  her  Gypsy  birth  disclosed, 

Were  momentary  crosses,  hindrances 

A  Spanish  noble  might  despise.     This  Chief 

Might  still  be  treated  with,  would  not  refuse 

A  proffered  ransom,  which  would  better  serve 

Gypsy  prosperity,  give  him  more  power 

Over  his  tribe,  than  any  fatherhood  : 

Nay,  all  the  father  in  him  must  plead  loud 

For  marriage  of  his  daughter  where  she  loved — 

Her  love  being  placed  so  high  and  lustrously. 

The  Gypsy  chieftain  had  foreseen  a  price 

That  would  be  paid  him  for  his  daughter's  dower — 

Might  soon  give  signs.     Oh,  all  his  purpose  lay 

Face  upward.     Silva  here  felt  strong,  and  smiled. 

What  could  a  Spanish  noble  not  command? 

He  only  helped  the  Queen,  because  he  chose; 

Could  war  on  Spaniards,  and  could  spare  the  Moor; 

Buy  justice,  or  defeat  it — if  he  would: 

Was  loyal,  not  from  weakness  but  from  strength 

Of  high  resolve  to  use  his  birthright  well. 

For  nobles  too  are  gods,  like  Emperors, 

Accept  perforce  their  own  divinity, 

And  wonder  at  the  virtue  of  their  touch, 

Till  obstinate  resistance  shakes  their  creed, 

Shattering  that  self  whose  wholeness  is  not  rounded 

Save  in  the  plastic  souls  of  other  men. 

Don  Silva  had  been  suckled  in  that  creed 

(A  high-taught  speculative  noble  else), 

Held  it  absurd  as  foolish  argument 

If  any  failed  in  deference,  was  too  proud 

Not  to  be  courteous  to  so  poor  a  knave 

As  one  who  knew  not  necessary  truths 

Of  birth  and  dues  of  rank ;  but  cross  his  will, 

The  miracle-working  will,  his  rage  leaped  out 

As  by  a  right  divine  to  rage  more  fatal 

Than  a  mere  mortal  man's.     And  now  that  will 

Had  met  a  stronger  adversary — strong 

As  awful  ghosts  are  whom  we  cannot  touch, 


120  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

While  they  clutch  us,  subtly  as  poisoned  air, 
In  deep-laid  fibres  of  inherited  fear 
That  lie  below  all  courage. 

Silva  said,  • 

"  She  is  not  lost  to  me,  might  still  be  mine 
But  for  the  Inquisition — the  dire  hand 
That  waits  to  clutch  her  with  a  hideous  grasp 
Not  passionate,  human,  living,  but  a  grasp 
As  in  the  death-throe  when  the  human  soul 
Departs  and  leaves  force  unrelenting,  locked, 
Not  to  be  loosened  save  by  slow  decay 
That  frets  the  universe.     Father  Isidor 
Has  willed  it  so :  his  phial  dropped  the  oil 
To  catch  the  air-borne  motes  of  idle  slander; 
He  fed  the  fascinated  gaze  that  clung 
Bound  all  her  movements,  frank  as  growths  of  spring, 
With  the  new  hateful  interest  of  suspicion. 
What  barrier  is  this  Gypsy?  a  mere  gate 
I'll  find  the  key  for.     The  one  barrier, 
The  tightening  cord  that  winds  about  my  limbs, 
Is  this  kind  uncle,  this  imperious  saint, 
He  who  will  save  me,  guard  me  from  myself. 
And  he  can  work  his  will :  I  have  no  help 
Save  reptile  secrecy,  and  no  revenge 
Save  that  I  will  do  what  he  schemes  to  hinder. 
Ay,  secrecy,  and  disobedience — these 
No  tyranny  can  master.     Disobey ! 
You  may  divide  the  universe  with  God, 
Keeping  your  will  unbent,  and  hold  a  world 
Where  He  is  not  supreme.     The  Prior  shall  know  it! 
His  will  shall  breed  resistance :  he  shall  do 
The  thing  he  would  not,  further  what  he  hates 
By  hardening  my  resolve." 

But  'neath  this  speech — 
Defiant,  hectoring,  the  more  passionate  voice 
Of  many-blended  consciousness — there  breathed 
Murmurs  of  doubt,  the  weakness  of  a  self 
That  is  not  one ;  denies  and  yet  believes ; 
Protests  with  passion,  "  This  is  natural "— 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  121 

Yet  owns  the  other  still  were  truer,  better, 
Could  nature  follow  it :  a  self  disturbed 
By  budding  growths  of  reason  premature 
That  breed  disease.     With  all  his  outflung  rage 
Silva  half  shrank  before  the  steadfast  man 
Whose  life  was  one  compacted  whole,  a  realm 
Where  the  rule  changed  not,  and  the  law  was  strong. 
Then  that  reluctant  homage  stirred  new  hate, 
And  gave  rebellion  an  intenser  will. 

But  soon  this  inward  strife  the  slow-paced  hours 

Slackened;  and  the  soul  sank  with  hunger-pangs, 

Hunger  of  love.     Debate  was  swept  right  down 

By  certainty  of  loss  intolerable. 

A  little  loss !  only  a  dark-tressed  maid 

Who  had  no  heritage  save  her  beauteous  being! 

But  in  the  candor  of  her  virgin  eyes 

Saying,  I  love ;  and  in  the  mystic  charm 

Of  her  dear  presence,  Silva  found  a  heaven 

Where  faith  and  hope  were  drowned  as  stars  in  day. 

Fedalma  there,  each  momentary  Now 

Seemed  a  whole  blest  existence,  a  full  cup 

That,  flowing  over,  asked  no  pouring  hand 

From  past  to  future.     All  the  world  was  hers. 

Splendor  was  but  the  herald  trumpet-note 

Of  her  imperial  coming :  penury 

Vanished  before  her  as  before  a  gem, 

The  pledge  of  treasuries.     Fedalma  there, 

He  thought  all  loveliness  was  lovelier, 

She  crowning  it:  all  goodness  credible, 

Because  of  that  great  trust  her  goodness  bred. 

For  the  strong  current  of  the  passionate  love 

Which  urged  his  life  tow'rd  hers,  like  urgent  floods 

That  hurry  through  the  various-mingled  earth, 

Carried  within  its  stream  all  qualities 

Of  what  it  penetrated,  and  made  love 

Only  another  name,  as  Silva  was, 

For  the  whole  man  that  breathed  within  his  frame. 

And  she  was  gone.      Well,  goddesses  will  go; 


122  POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

But  for  a  noble  there  were  mortals  left 

Shaped  just  like  goddesses — 0  hateful  sweet! 

O  impudent  pleasure  that  should  dare  to  front 

With  vulgar  visage  memories  divine ! 

The  noble's  birthright  of  miraculous  will 

Turning  1  would  to  must  be,  spurning  all 

Offered  as  substitute  for  what  it  chose, 

Tightened  and  fixed  in  strain  irrevocable 

The  passionate  selection  of  that  love 

Which  came  not  first  but  as  all-conquering  last. 

Great  Love  has  many  attributes,  and  shrines 

For  varied  worship,  but  his  force  divine 

Shows  most  its  many -named  fulness  in  the  man 

Whose  nature  multitudinously  mixed — 

Each  ardent  impulse  grappling  with  a  thought — 

Kesists  all  easy  gladness,  all  content 

Save  mystic  rapture,  where  the  questioning  soul 

Flooded  with  consciousness  of  good  that  is 

Finds  life  one  bounteous  answer.     So  it  was 

In  Silva's  nature,  Love  had  mastery  there, 

Not  as  a  holiday  ruler,  but  as  one 

Who  quells  a  tumult  in  a  day  of  dread, 

A  welcomed  despot. 

0  all  comforters, 

All  soothing  things  that  bring  mild  ecstasy, 
Came  with  her  coming,  in  her  presence  lived. 
Spring  afternoons,  when  delicate  shadows  fall 
Pencilled  upon  the  grass ;  high  summer  morns 
When  white  light  rains  upon  the  quiet  sea 
And  corn-fields  flush  with  ripeness;  odors  soft — 
Dumb  vagrant  bliss  that  seems  to  seek  a  home 
And  find  it  deep  within,  'mid  stirrings  vague 
Of  far-off  moments  when  our  life  was  fresh; 
All  sweetly-tempered  music,  gentle  change 
Of  sound,  form,  color,  as  on  wide  lagoons 
At  sunset  when  from  black  far-floating  prows 
Comes  a  clear  wafted  song ;  all  exquisite  joy 
Of  a  subdued  desire,  like  some  strong  stream 
Made  placid  in  the  fulness  of  a  lake — 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  123 

All  came  with  her  sweet  presence,  for  she  brought 
The  love  supreme  which  gathers  to  its  realm 
All  powers  of  loving.     Subtle  nature's  hand 
Waked  with  a  touch  the  far-linked  harmonies 
In  her  own  manifold  work.     Fedalma  there, 
Fastidiousness  became  the  prelude  fine 
For  full  contentment ;  and  young  melancholy, 
Lost  for  its  origin,  seemed  but  the  pain 
Of  waiting  for  that  perfect  happiness. 
The  happiness  was  gone ! 

He  sate  alone, 

Hating  companionship  that  was  not  hers ; 
Felt  bruised  with  hopeless  longing ;  drank,  as  wine, 
Illusions  of  what  had  been,  would  have  been ; 
Weary  with  anger  and  a  strained  resolve, 
Sought  passive  happiness  in  waking  dreams. 
It  has  been  so  with  rulers,  emperors, 
Nay,  sages  who  held  secrets  of  great  Time, 
Sharing  his  hoary  and  beneficent  life — ' 
Men  who  sate  throned  among  the  multitudes — 
They  have  sore  sickened  at  the  loss  of  one. 
Silva  sat  lonely  in  her  chamber,  leaned 
Where  she  had  leaned,  to  feel  the  evening  breath 
Shed  from  the  orange-trees ;  when  suddenly 
His  grief  was  echoed  in  a  sad  young  voice 
Far  and  yet  near,  brought  by  aerial  wings. 

The  world  is  great :  the  birds  all  fly  from  me. 
The  stars  are  golden  fruit  upon  a  tree 
All  out  of  reach :  my  little  sister  went, 
And  I  am  lonely. 

The  world  is  great :  I  tried  to  mount  the  hill 
Above  the  pines,  where  the  light  lies  so  still, 
But  it  rose  higher :  little  Lisa  went, 
And  I  am  lonely. 

The  world  is  great :  the  wind  comes  rushing  by, 
I  wonder  where  it  comes  from  ;  sea-birds  cry 


124  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

And  hurt  my  heart :  my  little  sister  went, 
And  1  am  lonely. 

The  world  is  great :  the  people  laugh  and  talk, 
And  make  loud  holiday :  how  fast  they  walk! 
I'm  lame)  they  push  me:  little  Lisa  went, 
And  T  am  lonely. 

'Twas  Pablo,  like  the  wounded  spirit  of  song 

Pouring  melodious  pain  to  cheat  the  hour 

For  idle  soldiers  in  the  castle  court. 

Dreamily  Silva  heard  and  hardly  felt 

The  song  was  outward,  rather  felt  it  part 

Of  his  own  aching,  like  the  lingering  day, 

Or  slow  and  mournful  cadence  of  the  bell. 

But  when  the  voice  had  ceased  he  longed  for  it, 

And  fretted  at  the  pause,  as  memory  frets 

When  words  that  made  its  body  fall  away 

And  leave  it  yearning  dumbly.     Silva  then 

Bethought  him  whence  the  voice  came,  framed  perforce 

Some  outward  image  of  a  life  not  his 

That  made  a  sorrowful  centre  to  the  world : 

A  boy  lame,  melancholy-eyed,  who  bore 

A  viol — yes,  that  very  child  he  saw 

This  morning  eating  roots  by  the  gateway — saw 

As  one  fresh-ruined  sees  and  spells  a  name 

And  knows  not  what  he  does,  yet  finds  it  writ 

Full  in  the  inner  record.     Hark,  again ! 

The  voice  and  viol.     Silva  called  his  thought 

To  guide  his  ear  and  track  the  travelling  sound. 

0  bird  that  used  to  press 
Thy  head  against  m-y  cheek 
With  touch  that  seemed  to  speak 

And  ask  a  tender  "  yes  " — 

Ay  de  mi,  my  bird  I 

O  tender  downy  breast 

And  warmly  beating  heart, 
That  beating  seemed  a 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  125 

Of  me  ^vho  gave  it  rest  — 

Ay  de  mi,  my  bird  I 

The  western  court !     The  singer  might  be  seen 

From  the  upper  gallery :  quick  the  Duke  was  there, 

Looking  upon  the  court  as  on  a  stage. 

Men  eased  of  armor,  stretched  upon  the  ground, 

Gambling  by  snatches ;  shepherds  from  the  hills 

Who  brought  their  bleating  friends  for  slaughter;  grooms 

Shouldering  loose  harness ;  leather-aproned  smiths, 

Traders  with  wares,  green-suited  serving-men, 

Made  a  round  audience ;  and  in  their  midst 

Stood  little  Pablo,  pouring  forth  his  song, 

Just  as  the  Duke  had  pictured.     But  the  song 

Was  strangely  companied  by  Roldan's  play 

With  the  swift  gleaming  balls,  and  now  was  crushed 

By  peals  of  laughter  at  grave  Annibal, 

Who  carrying  stick  and  purse  o'erturned  the  pence, 

Making  mistake  by  rule.     Silva  had  thought 

To  melt  hard  bitter  grief  by  fellowship 

With  the  world-sorrow  trembling  in  his  ear 

In  Pablo's  voice;  had  meant  to  give  command 

For  the  boy's  presence;  but  this  company, 

This  mountebank  and  monkey,  must  be — stay! 

Not  be  excepted — must  be  ordered  too 

Into  his  private  presence ;  they  had  brought 

Suggestion  of  a  ready  shapen  tool 

To  cut  a  path  between  his  helpless  wish 

And  what  it  imaged.     A  ready  shapen  tool! 

A  spy,  an  envoy  whom  he  might  despatch 

In  unsuspected  secrecy,  to  find 

The  Gypsies'  refuge  so  that  none  beside 

Might  learn  it.     And  this  juggler  could  be  bribed, 

Would  have  no  fear  of  Moors — for  who  would  kill 

Dancers  and  monkeys? — could  pretend  a  journey 

Back  to  his  home,  leaving  his  boy  the  while 

To  please  the  Duke  with  song.     Without  such  chance— 

An  envoy  cheap  and  secret  as  a  mole 

Who  could  go  scathless,  come  back  for  his  pay 


126  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

And  vanish  straight,  tied  by  no  neighborhood — • 
Without  such  chance  as  this  poor  juggler  brought, 
Finding  Fedalma  was  betraying  her. 

Short  interval  betwixt  the  thought  and  deed. 

Roldan  was  called  to  private  audience 

With  Annibal  and  Pablo.     All  the  world 

(By  which  I  mean  the  score  or  two  who  heard) 

Shrugged  high  their  shoulders,  and  supposed  the  Duke 

Would  fain  beguile  the  evening  and  replace 

His  lacking  happiness,  as  was  the  right 

Of  nobles,  who  could  pay  for  any  cure, 

And  wore  nought  broken,  save  a  broken  limb. 

In  truth,  at  first,  the  Duke  bade  Pablo  sing, 

But,  while  he  sang,  called  Eoldan  wide  apart, 

And  told  him  of   a  mission  secret,  brief — 

A  quest  which  well  performed  might  earn  much  gold, 

But,  if  betrayed,  another  sort  of  pay. 

Roldan  was  ready ;  "  wished  above  all  for  gold, 

And  never  wished  to  speak;  had  worked  enough 

At  wagging  his  old  tongue  and  chiming  jokes; 

Thought  it  was  others'  turn  to  play  the  fool. 

Give  him  but  pence  enough,  no  rabbit,  sirs, 

Would  eat  and  stare  and  be  more  dumb  than  he. 

Give  him  his  orders." 

They  were  given  straight ; 
Gold  for  the  journey,  and  to  buy  a  mule 
Outside  the  gates,  through  which  he  was  to  pass 
Afoot  and  carelessly.     The  boy  would  stay 
Within  the  castle,  at  the  Duke's  command, 
And  must  have  nought  but  ignorance  to  betray 
For  threats  or  coaxing.     Once  the  quest  performed, 
The  news  delivered  with  some  pledge  of  truth 
Safe  to  the  Duke,  the  juggler  should  go  forth, 
A  fortune  in  his  girdle,  take  his  boy 
And  settle  firm  as  any  planted  tree 
In  fair  Valencia,  never  more  to  roam. 
"  Good !  good !  most  worthy  of  a  great  hidalgo  J 
And  Roldan  was  the  man !     But  Aunibal— , 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  127 

A  monkey  like  ho  other,  though  morose 

In  private  character,  yet  full  of  tricks — 

'Twere  hard  to  carry  him,  yet  harder  still 

To  leave  the  boy  and  him  in  company 

And  free  to  slip  away.     The  boy  was  wild 

And  shy  as  mountain  kid ;  .once  hid  himself 

And  tried  to  run  away ;  and  Annibal, 

Who  always  took  the  lad's  side  (he  was  small, 

And  they  were  nearer  of  a  size,  and,  sirs, 

Your  monkey  has  a  spite  against  us  men 

For  being  bigger) — Aunibal  went  too. 

Would  hardly  know  himself,  were  he  to  lose 

Both  boy  and  monkey — and  'twas  property, 

The  trouble  he  had  put  in  Aunibal. 

He  didn't  choose  another  man  should  beat 

His  boy  and  monkey.     If  they  ran  away 

Some  man  would  snap  them  up,  and  square  himself 

And  say  they  were  his  goods — he'd  taught  them — no! 

He  Roldan  had  no  mind  another  man 

Should  fatten  by  his  monkey,  and  the  boy 

Should  not  be  kicked  by  any  pair  of  sticks 

Calling  himself  a  juggler. "... 

But  the  Duke, 

Tired  of  that  hammering,  signed  that  it  should  cease; 
Bade  Roldan  quit  all  fears — the  boy  and  ape 
Should  be  safe  lodged  in  Abderahman's  tower, 
In  keeping  of  the  great  physician  there, 
The  Duke's  most  special  confidant  and  friend, 
One  skilled  in  taming  brutes,  and  always  kind. 
The  Duke  himself  this  eve  would  see  them  lodged. 
Roldan  must  go — spend  no  more  words — but  go. 

The  Astrologer's  Study. 

A  room  high  up  in  Abderahman's  tower, 
A  window  open  to  the  still  warm  eve, 
And  the  bright  disc  of  royal  Jupiter. 
Lamps  burning  low  make  little  atmospheres 
Of  light  amid  the  dimness  j  here  and  there 


128  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Show  books  and  phials,  stones  and  instruments. 

In  carved  dark-oaken  chair,  unpillowed,  sleeps 

Right  in  the  rays  of  Jupiter  a  small  man, 

In  skull-cap  bordered  close  with  crisp  gray  curls, 

And  loose  black  gown  showing  a  neck  and  breast 

Protected  by  a  dim-green  amulet ; 

Pale-faced,  with  finest  nostril  wont  to  breathe 

Ethereal  passion  in  a  world  of  thought ; 

Eyebrows  jet-black  and  firm,  yet  delicate; 

Beard  scant  and  grizzled ;  mouth  shut  firm,  with  curves 

So  subtly  turned  to  meanings  exquisite, 

You  seem  to  read  them  as  you  read  a  word 

Full-vowelled,  long-descended,  pregnant — rich 

With  legacies  from  long,  laborious  lives. 

Close  by  him,  like  a  genius  of  sleep, 

Purrs  the  gray  cat,  bridling,  with  snowy  breast. 

A  loud  knock.     "  Forward !  "  in  clear  vocal  ring. 

Enter  the  Duke,  Pablo,  and  Annibal. 

Exit  the  cat,  retreating  toward  the  dark. 

DON-  SILVA. 
You  slept,  Sephardo.     I  am  come  too  soon. 

SEPHARDO. 

Kay,  my  lord,  it  was  I  who  slept  too  long. 
I  go  to  court  among  the  stars  to-night, 
So  bathed  my  soul  beforehand  in  deep  sleep 
But  who  are  these? 

DON  SILVA. 

Small  guests,  for  whom  I  ask 
Your  hospitality.     Their  owner  comes 
Some  short  time  hence  to  claim  them.     I  am  pledged 
To  keep  them  safely ;  so  I  bring  them  you, 
Trusting  your  friendship  for  small  animals. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  129 

SEPHARDO. 
Yea,  am  not  I  too  a  small  animal? 

DON  SILVA. 

I  shall  be  much  beholden  to  your  love 
If  you  will  be  their  guardian.     I  can  trust 
No  other  man  so  well  as  you.     The  boy 
Will  please  you  with  his  singing,  touches  too 
The  viol  wondrously. 


Their  names  ar 


SEPHARDO. 

They  are  welcome  both. 


Pablo,  this — this  Annibal, 
And  yet,  I  hope,  no  warrior. 

SEPHARDO. 

We'll  make  peace. 

Come,  Pablo,  let  us  loosen  our  friend's  chain. 
Deign  you,  my  lord,  to  sit.     Here  Pablo,  thou — 
Close  to  my  chair.     Now  Annibal  shall  choose. 

[The  cautious  monkey,  in  a  Moorish  dress, 

A  tunic  white,  turban  and  scimitar, 

Wears  these  stage  garments,  nay,  his  very  flesh, 

With  silent  protest ;  keeps  a  neutral  air 

As  aiming  at  a  metaphysic  state 

'Twixt  "  is  "  and  "  is  not "  j  lets  his  chain  be  loosed 

By  sage  Sephardo's  hands,  sits  still  at  first, 

Then  trembles  out  of  his  neutrality, 

Looks  up  and  leaps  into  Sephardo's  lap, 

And  chatters  forth  his  agitated  soul, 

Turning  to  peep  at  Pablo  on  the  floor.] 

SEPHARDO. 

See,  he  declares  we  are  at  amity! 
9 


130  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

DON  SILVA. 
Ko  brother  sage  had  read  your  nature  faster. 

SEPHABDO. 

Why,  so  he  is  a  brother  sage.     Man  thinks 
Brutes  have  no  wisdom,  since  they  know  not  his : 
Can  we  divine  their  world? — the  hidden  life 
That  mirrors  us  as  hideous  shapeless  power, 
Cruel  supremacy  of  sharp-edged  death, 
Or  fate  that  leaves  a  bleeding  mother  robbed? 
Oh,  they  have  long  tradition  and  swift  speech, 
Can  tell  with  touches  and  sharp  darting  cries 
Whole  histories  of  timid  races  taught 
To  breathe  in  terror  by  red-handed  man. 

DON  SILVA. 

Ah,  you  denounce  my  sport  with  hawk  and  hound. 

I  would  not  have  the  angel  Gabriel 

As  hard  as  you  in  noting  down  my  sins. 

SEPHABDO. 

Nay,  they  are  virtues  for  you  warriors — 
Hawking  and  hunting!     You  are  merciful 
When  you  leave  killing  men  to  kill  the  brutes. 
But,  for  the  point  of  wisdom,  I  would  choose 
To  know  the  mind  that  stirs  between  the  wings 
Of  bees  and  building  wasps,  or  fills  the  woods 
With  myriad  murmurs  of  responsive  sense 
And  true-aimed  impulse,  rather  than  to  know 
The  thoughts  of  warriors. 

DON  SILVA. 

Yet  they  are  warriors  too- 

Your  animals.     Your  judgment  limps,  Sephardo: 
Death  is  the  king  of  this  world;  'tis  his  park 
Where  he  breeds  life  to  feed  him.     Cries  of  pain 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  131 

Are  music  for  his  banquet ;  and  the  masque— 
The  last  grand  masque  for  his  diversion,  is 
The  Holy  Inquisition. 

SEPHARDO. 

Ay,  anon 

I  may  chime  in  with  you.     But  not  the  less 
My  judgment  has  firm  feet.     Though  death  were  king. 
And  cruelty  his  right-hand  minister, 
Pity  insurgent  in  some  human  breasts 
Makes  spiritual  empire,  reigns  supreme 
As  persecuted  faith  in  faithful  hearts. 
Your  small  physician,  weighing  ninety  pounds, 
A  petty  morsel  for  a  healthy  shark, 
Will  worship  mercy  throned  within  his  soul 
Though  all  the  luminous  angels  of  the  stars 
Burst  into  cruel  chorus  on  his  ear 
Singing,  "We  know  no  mercy."     He  would  cry 
"  I  know  it "  still,  and  soothe  the  frightened  bird, 
And  feed  the  child  a-hungered,  walk  abreast 
Of  persecuted  men,  and  keep  most  hate 
For  rational  torturers.     There  I  stand  firm. 
But  you  are  bitter,  and  my  speech  rolls  on 
Out  of  your  note. 

DON  SILVA. 

N"o,  no,  I  follow  you. 

I  too  have  that  within  which  I  will  worship 
In  spite  of  ...   Yes,  Sephardo,  I  am  bitter. 
I  need  your  counsel,  foresight,  all  your  aid. 
Lay  these  small  guests  to  bed,  then  we  will  talk. 

SEPHARDO. 

See,  they  are  sleeping  now.     The  boy  has  made 
My  leg  his  pillow.     For  my  brother  sage, 
He'll  never  heed  us ;  he  knit  long  ago 
A  sound  ape-system,  wherein  men  are  brutes 


132  POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Emitting  doubtful  noises.     Pray,  my  lord, 
Unlade  what  burdens  you :  my  ear  and  hand 
Are  servants  of  a  heart  much  bound  to  you. 

DON  SILVA. 

Yes,  yours  is  love  that  roots  in  gifts  bestowed 
By  you  on  others,  and  will  thrive  the  more 
The  more  it  gives.     I  have  a  double  want: 
First  a  confessor — not  a  Catholic ; 
A  heart  without  a  livery — naked  manhood. 

SEPHARDO. 

My  lord,  I  will  be  frank;  there's  no  such  thing 

As  naked  manhood.     If  the  stars  look  down 

On  any  mortal  of  our  shape,  whose  strength 

Is  to  judge  all  things  without  preference, 

He  is  a  monster,  not  a  faithful  man. 

While  my  heart  beats,  it  shall  wear  livery — 

My  people's  livery,  whose  yellow  badge 

Marks  them  for  Christian  scorn.     I  will  not  say 

Man  is  first  man  to  me,  then  Jew  or  Gentile : 

That  suits  the  rich  marranos;  but  to  me 

My  father  is  first  father  and  then  man. 

So  much  for  frankness'  sake.     But  let  that  pass. 

'Tis  true  at  least,  I  am  no  Catholic 

But  Salomo  Sephardo,  a  born  Jew, 

Willing  to  serve  Don  Silva. 

DON  SILVA. 

Oft  you  sing 

Another  strain,  and  melt  distinctions  down 
As  no  more  real  than  the  wall  of  dark 
Seen  by  small  fishes'  eyes,  that  pierce  a  span 
In  .the  wide  ocean.     Now  you  league  yourself 
To  hem  me,  hold  me  prisoner  in  bonds 
Made,  say  you — how? — by  God  or  Demiurge, 
By  spirit  or  flesh — I  care  not !     Love  was  made 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Stronger  than  bonds,  and  where  they  press  must  break 

them. 

I  came  to  you  that  I  might  breathe  at  large, 
And  now  you  stifle  me  with  talk  of  birth, 
Of  race  and  livery.     Yet  you  knew  Fedalma. 
She  was  your  friend,  Sephardo.     And  you  know 
She  is  gone  from  me — know  the  hounds  are  loosed 
To  dog  me  if  I  seek  her. 

SEPHARDO. 

Yes,  I  know. 

Forgive  me  that  I  used  untimely  speech, 
Pressing  a  bruise.     I  loved  her  well,  my  lord : 
A  woman  mixed  of  such  fine  elements 
That  were  all  virtue  and  religion  dead 
She'd  make  them  newly,  being  what  she  was. 

DON  SILVA. 

Was?  say  not  was,  Sephardo!     She  still  lives — 

Is,  and  is  mine ;  and  I  will  not  renounce 

What  heaven,  nay,  what  she  gave  me.     I  will  sin, 

If  sin  I  must,  to  win  my  life  again. 

The  fault  lie  with  those  powers  who  have  embroiled 

The  world  in  hopeless  conflict,  where  all  truth 

Fights  manacled  with  falsehood,  and  all  good 

Makes  but  one  palpitating  life  with  ill. 

(Dosr  SILVA  pauses.     SEPHARDO  is  silent.) 
Sephardo,  speak!  am  I  not  justified? 
You  taught  my  mind  to  use  the  wing  that  soars 
Above  the  petty  fences  of  the  herd: 
Now,  when  I  need  your  doctrine,  you  are  dumb. 

SEPHARDO. 

Patience!     Hidalgos  want  interpreters 
Of  untold  dreams  and  riddles;  they  insist 
On  dateless  horoscopes,  on  formulas 
To  raise  a  possible  spirit,  nowhere  named. 


134  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Science  must  be  their  wishing-cap ;  the  stars 
Speak  plainer  for  high  largesse.     No,  my  lord! 
I  cannot  counsel  you  to  unknown  deeds. 
This  much  I  can  divine :  you  wish  to  find 
Her  whom  you  love — to  make  a  secret  search. 

DON  SILVA. 

That  is  begun  already :  a  messenger 
Unknown  to  all  has  been  despatched  this  night. 
But  forecast  must  be  used,  a  plan  devised, 
Ready  for  service  when  my  scout  returns, 
Bringing  the  invisible  thread  to  guide  my  steps 
Toward  that  lost  self  my  life  is  aching  with. 
Sephardo,  I  will  go :  and  I  must  go 
Unseen  by  all  save  you ;  though,  at  our  need, 
We  may  trust  Alvar. 

SEPHARDO. 

A  grave  task,  my  lord. 
Have  you  a  shapen  purpose,  or  mere  will 
That  sees  the  end  alone  and  not  the  means? 
Resolve  will  melt  no  rocks. 

DON  SILVA. 

But  it  can  scale  them. 
This  fortress  has  two  private  issues :  one, 
Which  served  the  Gypsies'  flight,  to  me  is  closed: 
Our  bands  must  watch  the  outlet,  now  betrayed 
To  cunning  enemies.     Remains  one  other, 
Known  to  no  man  save  me :  a  secret  left 
As  heirloom  in  our  house :  a  secret  safe 
Even  from  him — from  Father  Isidor. 
'Tis  he  who  forces  me  to  use  it — he : 
All's  virtue  that  cheats  bloodhounds.     Hear,  Sephardo. 
Given,  my  scout  returns  and  brings  me  news 
I  can  straight  act  on,  I  shall  want  your  aid. 
The  issue  lies  below  this  tower,  your  fastness, 
Where,  by  my  charter,  you  rule  absolute. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  135 

I  shall  feign  illness ;  you  with  mystic  air 
Must  speak  of  treatment  asking  vigilance 
(Nay  I  am  ill — my  life  has  half  ebbed  out). 
I  shall  be  whimsical,  devolve  command 
On  Don  Diego,  speak  of  poisoning, 
Insist  on  being  lodged  within  this  tower, 
And  rid  myself  of  tendance  save  from  you 
And  perhaps  from  Alvar.     So  I  shall  escape 
Unseen  by  spies,  shall  win  the  days  I  need 
To  ransom  her  and  have  her  safe  enshrined. ' 
No  matter,  were  my  flight  disclosed  at  last : 
I  shall  come  back  as  from  a  duel  fought 
Which  no  man  can  undo.     Now  you  know  all. 
Say,  can  I  count  on  you? 

SEPHARDO. 

For  faithfulness 

In  aught  that  I  may  promise,  yes,  my  lord. 
But — for  a  pledge  of  faithfulness — this  warning. 
I  will  betray  nought  for  your  personal  harm : 
I  love  you.     But  note  this — I  am  a  Jew ; 
And  while  the  Christian  persecutes  my  race, 
I'll  turn  at  need  even  the  Christian's  trust 
Into  a  weapon  and  a  shield  for  Jews. 
Shall  Cruelty  crowned — wielding  the  savage  force 
Of  multitudes,  and  calling  savageness  God 
Who  gives  it  victory — upbraid  deceit 
And  ask  for  faithfulness?     I  love  you  well. 
You  are  my  friend.     But  yet  you  are  a  Christian, 
Whose  birth  has  bound  you  to  the  Catholic  kings. 
There  may  come  moments  when  to  share  my  joy 
Would  make  you  traitor,  when  to  share  your  grief 
Would  make  me  other  than  a  Jew  .... 

DON  SILVA. 

What  need 

To  urge  that  now,  Sephardo?     I  am  one 
Of  many  Spanish  nobles  who  detest 


136  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

The  roaring  bigotry  of  the  herd,  would  fain 

Dash  from  the  lips  of  king  and  queen  the  cup 

Filled  with  besotting  venom,  half  infused 

By  avarice  and  half  by  priests.     And  now — 

Now  when  the  cruelty  you  flout  me  with 

Pierces  me  too  in  the  apple  of  my  eye, 

Now  when  my  kinship  scorches  me  like  hate 

Flashed  from  a  mother's  eye,  you  choose  this  time 

To  talk  of  birth  as  of  inherited  rage 

Deep-down,  volcanic,  fatal,  bursting  forth 

From  under  hard-taught  reason?     Wondrous  friend! 

My  uncle  Isidor's  echo,  mocking  me, 

From  the  opposing  quarter  of  the  heavens, 

With  iteration  of  the  thing  I  know, 

That  I'm  a  Christian  knight  and  Spanish  duke! 

The  consequence?     Why,  that  I  know.     It  lies 

In  my  own  hands  and  not  on  raven  tongues. 

The  knight  and  noble  shall  not  wear  the  chain 

Of  false-linked  thoughts  in  brains  of  other  men. 

What  question  was  there  'twixt  us  two,  of  aught 

That  makes  division?     When  I  come  to  you 

J  come  from  other  doctrine  than  the  Prior's. 

SEPHABDO. 

My  lord,  you  are  o'erwrought  by  pain.     My  words, 

That  carried  innocent  meaning,  do  but  float 

Like  little  emptied  cups  upon  the  flood 

Your  mind  brings  with  it.     I  but  answered  you 

With  regular  proviso,  such  as  stands 

In  testaments  and  charters,  to  forefend 

A  possible  case  which  none  deem  likelihood ; 

Just  turned  my  sleeve,  and  pointed  to  the  brand 

Of  brotherhood  that  limits  every  pledge. 

Superfluous  nicety — the  student's  trick, 

Who  will  not  drink  until  he  can  define 

What  water  is'and  is  not.     But  enough 

My  will  to  serve  you  now  knows  no  division 

Save  the  alternate  beat  of  love  and  fear, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  137 

There's  danger  in  this  quest — name,  honor,  life — 
My  lord,  the  stake  is  great,  and  are  you  sure  .  .  . 

DON  SILVA. 

No,  I  ani  sure  of  nought  but  this,  Sephardo, 
That  I  will  go.     Prudence  is  but  conceit 
Hoodwinked  by  ignorance.     There's  nought  exists 
That  is  not  dangerous  and  holds  not  death 
For  souls  or  bodies.     Prudence  turns  its  helm 
To  flee  the  storm  and  lands  'mid  pestilence. 
Wisdom  would  end  by  throwing  dice  with  folly 
But  for  dire  passion  which  alone  makes  choice. 
And  I  have  chosen  as  the  lion  robbed 
Chooses  to  turn  upon  the  ravisher. 
If  love  were  slack,  the  Prior's  imperious  will 
Would  move  it  to  outmatch  him.     But,  Sephardo, 
Were  all  .else  mute,  all  passive  as  sea-calms, 
My  soul  is  one  great  hunger — I  must  see  her. 
Now  you  are  smiling.     Oh,  you  merciful  men 
Pick  up  coarse  griefs  and  fling  them  in  the  face 
Of  us  whom  life  with  long  descent  has  trained 
To  subtler  pains,  mocking  your  ready  balms. 
You  smile  at  my  soul's  hunger. 

SEPHARDO. 

Science  smiles 

And  sways  our  lips  in  spite  of  us,  my  lord, 
When  thought  weds  fact — when  maiden  prophecy 
Waiting,  believing,  sees  the  bridal  torch. 
I  use  not  vulgar  measures  for  your  grief, 
My  pity  keeps  no  cruel  feasts ;  but  thought 
Has  joys  apart,  even  in  blackest  woe, 
And  seizing  some  fine  thread  of  verity 
Knows  momentary  godhead. 

DON  SILT  A. 

And  your  thought? 


138  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

SEPHARDO. 

Seized  on  the  close  agreement  of  your  words 
With  what  is  written  in  your  horoscope. 

DON  SILVA. 
Beach  it  me  now. 

SEPHARDO. 

By  your  leave,  Annibal. 

(Replaces  ANNIBAL  on  PABLO'S  lap  and  rises.  The 
boy  moves  without  waking,  and  his  head  falls  on  the 
opposite  side.  SEPHARDO  fetches  a  cushion  and  lays 
PABLO'S  head  gently  down  upon  it,  then  goes  to 
reach  the  parchment  from  a  cabinet.  ANNIBAL, 
having  waked  up  in  alarm,  shuts  his  eyes  quickly 
again  and  pretends  to  sleep.) 

DON  SILVA. 

I  wish,  by  new  appliance  of  your  skill, 
Reading  afresh  the  records  of  the  sky, 
You  could  detect  more  special  augury. 
Such  chance  oft  happens,  for  all  characters 
Must  shrink  or  widen,  as  our  wine-skins  do, 
For  more  or  less  that  we  can  pour  in  themj 
And  added  years  give  ever  a  new  key 
To  fixed  prediction. 

SEPHAKDO  (returning  with  the  parchment  and  reseat- 
ing himself). 

True;  our  growing  thought 
Makes  growing  revelation.     But  demand  not 
Specific  augury,  as  of  sure  success 
In  meditated  projects,  or  of  ends 
To  be  foreknown  by  peeping  in  God's  scroll. 
I  say — nay,  Ptolemy  said  it,  but  wise  books 
For  half  the  truths  they  hold  are  honored  tombs- 
Prediction  is  contingent,  of  effects 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  139 

Where  causes  and  concomitants  are  mixed 

To  seeming  wealth  of  possibilities 

Beyond  our  reckoning.     Who  will  pretend 

To  tell  the  adventures  of  each  single  fish 

Within  the  Syrian  Sea?     Show  me  a  fish, 

I'll  weigh  him,  tell  his  kind,  what  he  devoured, 

What  would  have  devoured  him — but  for  one  Bias 

Who  netted  him  instead ;  nay,  could  I  tell 

That  had  Bias  missed  him,  he  would  not  have  died 

Of  poisonous  mud,  and  so  made  carrion, 

Swept  off  at  last  by  some  sea-scavenger? 

DON  SILVA. 

Ay,  now  you  talk  of  fishes,  you  get  hard. 
I  note  you  merciful  men :  you  can  endure 
Torture  of  fishes  and  hidalgos.  Follows? 

SEPHARDO. 

By  how  much,  then,  the  fortunes  of  a  man 

Are  made  of  elements  refined  and  mixed 

Beyond  a  tunny's,  what  our  science  tells 

Of  the  star's  influence  hath  contingency 

In  special  issues.     Thus,  the  loadstone  draws, 

Acts  like  a  will  to  make  the  iron  submiss; 

But  garlick  rubbing  it,  that  chief  effect 

Lies  in  suspense ;  the  iron  keeps  at  large, 

And  garlick  is  controller  of  the  stone. 

And  so,  my  lord,  your  horoscope  declares 

Not  absolutely  of  your  sequent  lot, 

But,  by  our  lore's  authentic  rules,  sets  forth 

What  gifts,  what  dispositions,  likelihoods, 

The  aspects  of  the  heavens  conspired  to  fuse 

With  your  incorporate  soul.     Aught  more  than  this 

Is  vulgar  doctrine.      For  the  ambient, 

Though  a  cause  regnant,  is  not  absolute,  . 

But  suffers  a  determining  restraint 

From  action  of  the  subject  qualities 

In  proximate  motion. 


140  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

DON  SILVA. 

Yet  you  smiled  just  now 
At  some  close  fitting  of  my  horoscope 
With  present  fact — with  this  resolve  of  mine 
To  quit  the  fortress? 

SEPHABDO. 

Nay,  not  so;  I  smiled, 
Observing  how  the  temper  of  your  soul 
Sealed  long  tradition  of  the  influence  shed 
By  the  heavenly  spheres.     Here  is  your  horoscope: 
The  aspects  of  the  Moon  with  Mars  conjunct^ 
Of  Venus  and  the  Sun  with  Saturn,  lord 
Of  the  ascendent,  make  symbolic  speech 
Whereto  your  words  gave  running  paraphrase. 

DON  SILVA  (impatiently). 
What  did  I  say? 

SEPHABDO. 

You  spoke  as  oft  you  did 
When  I  was  schooling  you  at  C<5rdova, 
And  lessons  on  the  noun  and  verb  were  drowned 
With  sudden  stream  of  general  debate 
On  things  and  actions.     Always  in  that  stream 
I  saw  the  play  of  babbling  currents,  saw 
A  nature  o'er-endowed  with  opposites 
Making  a  self  alternate,  where  each  hour 
Was  critic  of  the  last,  each  mood  too  strong 
For  tolerance  of  its  fellow  in  close  yoke. 
The  ardent  planets  stationed  as  supreme, 
Potent  in  action,  suffer  light  malign 
From  luminaries  large  and  coldly  bright 
Inspiring  meditative  doubt,  which  straight 
Doubts  of  itself,  by  interposing  act 
Of  Jupiter  in  the  fourth  house  fortified 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  141 

With  power  ancestral.     So,  my  lord,  I  read 
The  changeless  in  the  changing;  so  I  read 
The  constant  action  of  celestial  powers 
Mixed  into  waywardness  of  mortal  men, 
Whereof  no  sage's  eye  can  trace  the  course 
And  see  the  close. 

Dox  SII/VA. 

Fruitful  result,  0  sage! 
Certain  uncertainty. 

SEPHAKDO. 

Yea,  a  result 

Fruitful  as  seeded  earth,  where  certainty 
Would  be  as  barren  as  a  globe  of  gold. 
I  love  you,  and  would  serve  you  well,  my  lord. 
Your  rashness  vindicates  itself  too  much, 
Puts  harness  on  of  cobweb  theory 
While  rushing  like  a  cataract.     Be  warned. 
Resolve  with  you  is  a  tire-breathing  steed, 
But  it  sees  visions,  and  may  feel  the  air 
Impassable  with  thoughts  that  come  too  late, 
Rising  from  out  the  grave  of  murdered  honor. 
Look  at  your  image  in  your  horoscope : 

(Laying  the  horoscope  before  DON"  SILVA.) 
You  are  so  mixed,  my  lord,  that  each  to-day 
May  seem  a  maniac  to  its  morrow. 

DON  SILVA  (pushing  away  the  horoscope,  rising  and 
turning  to  look  out  at  the  open  window). 

No! 

No  morrow  e'er  will  say  that  I  am  mad 
Not  to  renounce  her.     Risks !  I  know  them  all. 
I've  dogged  each  lurking,  ambushed  consequence. 
I've  handled  every  chance  to  know  its  shape 
As  blind  men  handle  bolts.     Oh,  I'm  too  sane! 
I  see  the  Prior's  nets.     He  does  my  deedj 


142  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

For  he  has  narrowed  all  my  life  to  this — 
That  I  must  find  her  by  some  hidden  means. 

(He  turns  and  stands  close  in  front  of  SEPHARDO.  ) 
One  word,  Sephardo — leave  that  horoscope, 
Which  is  but  iteration  of  myself, 
And  give  me  promise.      Shall  I  count  on  you 
To  act  upon  my  signal?     Kings  of  Spain 
Like  me  have  found  their  refuge  in  a  Jew, 
And  trusted  in  his  counsel.     You  will  help  me? 

SEPHARDO. 

Yes,  my  lord,  I  will  help  you.     Israel 
Is  to  the  nations  as  the  body's  heart: 
Thus  writes  our  poet  Jehuda.     I  will  act 
So  that  no  man  may  ever  say  through  me 
"  Your  Israel  is  nought, "  and  make  my  deeds 
The  mud  they  fling  upon  my  brethren. 
I  will  not  fail  you,  save — you  know  the  terms : 
I  am  a  Jew,  and  not  that  infamous  life 
That  takes  on  bastardy,  will  know  no  father, 
So  shrouds  itself  in  the  pale  abstract,  Man. 
You  should  be  sacrificed  to  Israel 
If  Israel  needed  it. 

DON  SILVA. 

I  fear  not  that. 

I  am  no  friend  of  fines  and  banishment, 
Or  flames  that,  fed  on  heretics,  still  gape, 
And  must  have  heretics  made  to  feed  them  still. 
I  take  your  terms,  and  for  the  rest,  your  love 
Will  not  forsake  me. 

SEPHARDO. 

'Tis  hard  Roman  love, 

That  looks  away  and  stretches  forth  the  sword 
Bared  for  its  master's  breast  to  run  upon. 
But  you  will  have  it  so.     Love  shall  obey. 

(DoN  SILVA  turns  to  the  ivindow  again,  and  is  silent 
for  a  feiv  moments,  looking  at  the  sky.) 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  143 

DON  SILVA. 

See  now,  Sephardo,  you  would  keep  no  faith 
To  smooth  the  path  of  cruelty.     Confess, 
The  deed  I  would  not  do,  save  for  the  strait 
Another  brings  me  to  (quit  my  command, 
Eesign  it  for  brief  space,  I  mean  no  more) — 
Were  that  deed  branded,  then  the  brand  should  fix 
On  him  who  urged  me. 

SEPHARDO. 

Will  it,  though,  my  lord? 

DON  SILVA. 
I  speak  not  of  the  fact,  but  of  the  right. 

SEPHARDO. 

My  lord,  you  said  but  flow  you  were  resolved. 
Question  not  if  the  world  will  be  unjust 
Branding  your  deed.     If  conscience  has  two  courts 
With  differing  verdicts,  where  shall  lie  the  appeal? 
Our  law  must  be  without  us  or  within. 
The  Highest  speaks  through  all  our  people's  voice, 
Custom,  tradition,  and  old  sanctities; 
Or  he  reveals  himself  by  new  decrees 
Of  inward  certitude. 

DON  SILVA. 

My  love  for  her 
Makes  highest  law,  must  be  the  voice  of  God. 

SEPHARDO. 

I  thought,  but  now,  you  seemed  to  make  excuse, 
And  plead  as  in  some  court  where  Spanish  knights 
Are  tried  by  other  laws  than  those  of  love. 


144  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

DON  SILVA. 

'Twas  momentary.     I  shall  dare  it  all. 
How  the  great  planet  glows,  and  looks  at  me, 
And  seems  to  pierce  me  with  his  effluence! 
Were  he  a  living  God,  these  rays  that  stir 
In  me  the  pulse  of  wonder  were  in  him 
Fulness  of  knowledge.      Are  you  certified, 
Sephardo,  that  the  astral  science  shrinks 
To  such  pale  ashes,  dead  symbolic  forms 
For  that  congenital  mixture  of  effects 
Which  life  declares  without  the  aid  of  lore? 
If  there  are  times  propitious  or  malign 
To  our  first  framing,  then  must  all  events 
Have  favoring  periods :  you  cull  your  plants 
By  signal  of  the  heavens,  then  why  not  trace 
As  others  would  by  astrologic  rule 
Times  of  good  augury  for  momentous  acts, — 
As  secret  journeys? 

SEPHARDO. 

Oh,  my  lord,  the  stars 
Act  not  as  witchcraft  or  as  muttered  spells. 
I  said  before  they  are  not  absolute, 
And  tell  no  fortunes.     I  adhere  alone 
To  such  tradition  of  their  agencies 
As  reason  fortifies. 

DON  SILVA. 

A  barren  science! 

Some  argue  now  'tis  folly.     'Twere  as  well 
Be  of  their  mind.     If  those  bright  stars  had  will — 
But  they  are  fatal  fires,  and  know  no  love. 
Of  old,  I  think,  the  world  was  happier 
With  many  gods,  who  held  a  struggling  life 
As  mortals  do,  and  helped  men  in  the  straits 
Of  forced  misdoing.     I  doubt  that  horoscope. 

(DoN  SILVA  turns  from  the  window  and  reseats  him- 
self opposite  SEPHAKDO.) 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY,  145 

I  am  most  self-contained,  and  strong  to  bear. 
No  man  save  you  has  seen  my  trembling  lip 
Utter  her  name,  since  she  was  lost  to  me. 
I'll  face  the  progeny  of  all  my  deeds. 

SEPHARDO. 

May  they  be  fair !     No  horoscope  makes  slaves. 
'Tis  but  a  mirror,  shows  one  image  forth, 
And  leaves  the  future  dark  with  endless  "  ifs.w 

DON  SILVA. 

I  marvel,  my  Sephardo,  you  can  pinch 

With  confident  selection  these  few  grains, 

And  call  them  verity,  from  out  the  dust 

Of  crumbling  error.     Surely  such  thought  creeps, 

With  insect  exploration  of  the  world. 

Were  I  a  Hebrew,  now,  I  would  be  bold. 

Why  should  you  fear,  not  being  Catholic? 

SEPHARDO. 

Lo!  you  yourself,  my  lord,  mix  subtleties 
With  gross  belief;  by  momentary  lapse 
Conceive,  with  all  the  vulgar,  that  we  Jews 
Must  hold  ourselves  G-od's  outlaws,  and  defy 
All  good  with  blasphemy,  because  we  hold 
Your  good  is  evil ;  think  we  must  turn  pale 
To  see  our  portraits  painted  in  your  hell, 
And  sin  the  more  for  knowing  we  are  lost. 

DON  SILVA. 

Read  not  my  words  with  malice.     I  but  meant, 
My  temper  hates  an  over-cautious  march. 

SEPHARDO. 

The  Unnamable  made  not  the  search  for  truth 
To  suit  hidalgos'  temper.     I  abide 
10 


146  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

By  that  wise  spirit  of  listening  reverence 

Which  marks  the  boldest  doctors  of  our  race. 

For  Truth,  to  us,  is  like  a  livirig  child 

Born  of  two  parents :  if  the  parents  part 

And  will  divide  the  child,  how  shall  it  live? 

Or,  I  will  rather  say :  Two  angels  guide 

The  path  of  man,  both  aged  and  yet  young, 

As  angels  are,  ripening  through  endless  years. 

On  one  he  leans :  some  call  her  Memory, 

And  some,  Tradition ;  and  her  voice  is  sweet, 

With  deep  mysterious  accords :  the  other, 

Floating  above,  holds  down  a  lamp  which  streams 

A  light  divine  and  searching  on  the  earth, 

Compelling  eyes  and  footsteps.     Memory  yields, 

Yet  clings  with  loving  check,  and  shines  anew 

Reflecting  all  the  rays  of  that  bright  lamp 

Our  angel  Reason  holds.     We  had  not  walked 

But  for  Tradition;  we  walk  evermore 

To  higher  paths,  by  brightening  Reason's  lamp. 

Still  we  are  purblind,  tottering.     I  hold  less 

Than  Aben-Ezra,  of  that  aged  lore 

Brought  by  long  centuries  from  Chaldaean  plains; 

The  Jew-taught  Florentine  rejects  it  all. 

For  still  the  light  is  measured  by  the  eye, 

And  the  weak  organ  fails.     I  may  see  ill ; 

But  over  all  belief  is  faithfulness, 

Which  fulfils  vision  with  obedience. 

So,  I  must  grasp  my  morsels :  truth  is  oft 

Scattered  in  fragments  round  a  stately  pile 

Built  half  of  error;  and  the  eye's  defect 

May  breed  too  much  denial.     But,  my  lord, 

I  weary  your  sick  soul.     Go  now  with  me 

Into  the  turret.     We  will  watch  the  spheres, 

And  see  the  constellations  bend  and  plunge 

Into  a  depth  of  being  where  our  eyes 

Hold  them  no  more.     We'll  quit  ourselves  and  be 

The  red  Aldebaran  or  bright  Sirius, 

And  sail  as  in  a  solemn  voyage,  bound 

On  some  great  quest  we  know  not. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  147 


DON  SILVA. 

Let  us  go. 

She  may  be  watching  too,  and  thought  of  her 
Sways  me,  as  if  she  knew,  to  every  act 
Of  pure  allegiance. 

SEPHARDO. 

That  is  love's  perfection — 
Tuning  the  soul  to  all  her  harmonies 
So  that  no  chord  can  jar.     Now  we  will  mount. 

A  large  hall  in  the  Castle,  of  Moorish  architecture.  On 
the  side  where  the  windows  are,  an  outer  gallery. 
Pages  and  other  young  gentlemen  attached  to  DON 
SILVA'S  household,  gathered  chiefly  at  one  end  of  the 
hall.  Some  are  moving  about ;  others  are  lounging 
on  the  carved  benches ;  others,  half  stretched  on  pieces 
of  matting  and  carpet,  are  gambling.  ARIAS,  a  strip- 
ling of  fifteen,  sings  by  snatches  in  a  boyish  treble,  as 
he  walks  up  and  down,  and  tosses  back  the  nuts  which 
another  youth  flings  toward  him.  In  the  middle 
DON  AMADOR,  a  gaunt,  gray-haired  soldier,  in  a 
handsome  uniform,  sits  in  a  marble  red-cushioned 
chair,  with  a  large  book  spread  out  on  his  knees,  from 
which  he  is  reading  aloud,  while  his  voice  is  half 
drowned  by  the  talk  that  is  going  on  around  him,  first 
one  voice  and  then  another  surging  above  the  hum. 

ARIAS  (singing). 

There  ivas  a  holy  hermit 

Who  counted  all  things  loss 
For  Christ  his  Master's  glory  : 

He  made  an  ivory  cross, 
And  as  he  knelt  before  it 

And  wept  his  murdered  Lord, 
The  ivory  turned  to  iron, 

The  cross  became  a  sword. 


148  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Josfi  (/row  the  floor). 
I  say,  twenty  cruzados !  thy  Galician  wit  can  never  count. 

HERNANDO  (also  from  the  floor). 
And  thy  Sevillian  wit  counts  double. 

ARIAS  (singing). 

The  tears  that  fell  upon  it, 

They  turned  to  red,  red  rust ; 
The  tears  that  fell  from  off  it 

Made  writing  in  the  dust, 
The  holy  hermit,  gazing, 

Saw  words  upon  the  ground: 
"  The  sword  be  red  forever 

With  the  blood  of  false  Mahound." 

DON  AMADOR  (looking  up  from  his  book,  and  raising 
his  voice). 

What,  gentlemen !    Our  Glorious  Lady  defend  us ! 

ENRIQUEZ  (from  the  benches'). 

Serves  the  infidels  right!  They  have  sold  Christians  enough 
to  people  half  the  towns  in  Paradise.  If  the  Queen,  now,  had 
divided  the  pretty  damsels  of  Malaga  among  the  Castilians 
who  have  been  helping  in  the  holy  war,'  and  not  sent  half  of 
them  to  Naples  .  .  . 

ARIAS  (singing  again). 

At  the  battle  of  Clavijo 
In  the  days  of  King  Ramiro, 
Help  us,  Allah  !  cried  the  Moslem, 
Cried  the  Spaniard,  Heaven's  chosen, 

God  and  Santiago  ! 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  149 

FABIAN. 

Oh,  the  very  tail  of  our  chance  has  vanished.  The  royal 
army  is  breaking  up — going  home  for  the  winter.  The  Grand 
Master  sticks  to  his  own  border. 

ARIAS  (singing). 

Straight  out-flushing  like  the  rainbow, 
See  him  come,  celestial  Baron, 
Mounted  knight,  with  red-crossed  banner, 
Plunging  earthward  to  the  battle, 

Glorious  Santiago! 

HURTADO. 

Yes,  yes,  through  the  pass  of  By-and-by,  you  go  to  the 
valley  of  Never.  We  might  have  done  a  great  feat,  if  the 
Marquis  of  Cadiz  .  .  . 

ARIAS  (sings). 

As  the  flame  before  the  swift  wind, 
See,  he  flres  us,  we  burn  with  him  ! 
Flash  our  swords,  dash  Pagans  backward  — 
Victory  he  !  pale  fear  is  Allah  ! 

God  with  Santiago! 

DON  AMADOR  (raising  his  voice  to  a  cry). 

Sangre  de  Dios,  gentlemen ! 

(He  shuts  the  book,  and  lets  it  fall  with  a  bang  on 
the  floor.      There  is  instant  silence.) 

To  what  good  end  is  it  that  I,  who  studied  at  Salamanca, 
and  can  write  verses  agreeable  to  the  Glorious  Lady  with  the 
point  of  a  sword  which  hath  done  harder  service,  am  reading 
aloud  in  a  clerkly  manner  from  a  book  which  hath  been  culled 
from  the  flowers  of  all  books,  to  instruct  you  in  the  knowledge 
befitting  those  who  would  be  knights  and  worthy  hidalgos?  I 
had  as  lief  be  reading  in  a  belfry.  And  gambling  too!  As  if 
it  were  a  time  when  we  needed  not  the  help  of  God  and  the 
saints!  Surely  for  the  space  of  one  hour  ye  might  subdue 


150  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

your  tongues  to  your  ears,  that  so  your  tongues  might  learn 
somewhat  of  civility  and  modesty.  Wherefore  am  I  master 
of  the  Duke's  retinue,  if  my  voice  is  to  run  along  like  a  gut- 
ter in  a  storm? 

HURTADO  (lifting  up  the  book  and  respectfully 
presenting  it  to  DON  AMADOR)  . 

Pardon,  Don  Amador.  The  air  is  so  commoved  by  your 
voice,  that  it  stirs  our  tongues  in  spite  of  us. 

DON  AMADOR  (reopening  the  book}. 

Confess,  now,  it  is  a  goose-headed  trick,  that  when  rational 
sounds  are  made  for  your  edification,  you  find  nought  in  it 
but  an  occasion  for  purposeless  gabble.  I  will  report  it  to 
the  Duke,  and  the  reading-time  shall  be  doubled,  and  my  office 
of  reader  shall  be  handed  over  to  Fray  Domingo. 

(While  DON  AMADOR  has  been  speaking,  DON  SILVA, 
with  DON  ALVAR,  has  appeared  walking  in  the 
outer  gallery  on  which  the  windows  are  opened.) 

ALL  (in  concert). 
No,  no,  no. 

DON  AMADOR. 

Are  ye  ready,  then,  to  listen,  if  I  finish  the  wholesome  ex- 
tract from  the  Seven  Parts,  wherein  the  wise  King  Alfonso 
hath  set  down  the  reason  why  knights  should  be  of  gentle 
birth?  Will  ye  now  be  silent? 

ALL. 
Yes,  silent. 

DON  AMADOR. 

But  when  I  pause,  and  look  up,  I  give  any  leave  to  speak, 
if  he  hath  aught  pertinent  to  say. 

(Heads.) 

"  And  this  no  bility  cometh  in  three  ways :  first,  by  lineage, 
secondly,  by  science,  and  thirdly,  by  valor  and  worthy  behavior. 
Now,  although  they  who  gain  nobility  through  science  or  good 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  151 

* 

deeds  are  rightfully  called  noble  and  gentle ;  nevertheless,  they 
are  with  the  highest  fitness  so  called  who  are  noble  by  ancient 
lineage,  and  lead  a  worthy  life  as  by  inheritance  from  afar ; 
and  hence  are  more  bound  and  constrained  to  act  well,  and 
guard  themselves  from  error  and  wrong-doing;  for  in  their 
case  it  is  more  true  that  by  evil-doing  they  bring  injury  and 
shame  not  only  on  themselves,  but  also  on  those  from  whom 
they  are  derived." 

DON  AMADOR  (placing  his  forefinger  for  a  mark  on  the  page, 
and  looking  up  while  he  keeps  his  voice  raised,  as  wishing 
DON  SILVA  to  overhear  him  in  the  judicious  discharge  of  his 
function). 

Hear  ye  that,  young  gentlemen?  See  ye  not  that  if  ye  have 
but  bad  manners  even,  they  disgrace  you  more  than  gross  mis- 
doings disgrace  the  low-born?  Think  you,  Arias,  it  becomes 
the  son  of  your  house  irreverently  to  sing  and  fling  nuts,  to 
the  interruption  of  your  elders? 

ARIAS  (sitting  on  the  floor,  and  leaning  backward 
on  his  elbows). 

Nay,  Don  Amador ;  King  Alfonso,  they  say,  was  a  heretic, 
and  I  think  that  is  not  true  writing.  For  noble  birth  gives 
us  more  leave  to  do  ill  if  we  like. 

DON  AMADOR  (lifting  his  brows). 
What  bold  and  blasphemous  talk  is  this? 

ARIAS. 

Why,  nobles  are  only  punished  now  and  then,  in  a  grand 
way,  and  have  their  heads  cut  off,  like  the  Grand  Constable. 
I  shouldn't  mind  that. 

Josis. 

Nonsense,  Arias!  nobles  have  their  heads  cut  off  because 
their  crimes  are  nobla  If  they  did  what  was  unknightly, 
they  would  come  to  shame.  Is  not  that  true,  Don  Amador? 


152  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

DON  AMADOB. 

Arias  is  a  contumacious  puppy,  who  will  bring  dishonor  on 
his  parentage.  Pray,  sirrah,  whom  did  you  ever  hear  speak 
as  you  have  spoken? 

ARIAS. 

Nay,  I  speak  out  of  my  own  head.  I  shall  go  and  ask  the 
Duke. 

HUBTADO. 

Now,  now!  you  are  too  bold,  Arias. 

ARIAS. 

Oh,  he  is  never  angry  with  me, — (Dropping  his  voice)  be- 
cause the  Lady  Fedalma  liked  me.  She  said  I  was  a  good 
boy,  and  pretty,  and  that  is  what  you  are  not,  Hurtado. 

HUBTADO. 
Girl-face !     See,  now,  if  you  dare  ask  the  Duke. 

(DoN  SILVA  is  just  entering  the  hall  from  the  gallery, 
with  DON  ALVAB  behind  him,  intending  to  pass 
out  at  the  other  end.  All  rise  with  homage.  DON 
SILVA  bows  coldly  and  abstractedly.  ARIAS  ad- 
vances from  the  group,  and  goes  up  to  DON  SILVA.) 

ARIAS. 

My  lord,  is  it  true  that  a  noble  is  more  dishonored  than 
other  men  if  he  does  aught  dishonorable? 

DON  SILVA  (first  blushing  deeply,   and  grasping  his   sword, 
then  raising  his  hand  and  giving  ARIAS  a  blow  on  the  ear). 

Varlet! 

ARIAS. 

My  lord,  I  am  a  gentleman. 

(DoN  SILVA  pushes  him  away,  and  passes  on  hur' 
riedly.) 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  153 

DON  ALVAR  (following  and  turning  to  speak). 

Go,  go!  you  should  not  speak  to  the  Duke  when  you  are 
not  called  upon.     He  is  ill  and  much  distempered. 

(ARIAS  retires,  flushed,  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  His 
companions  look  too  much  surprised  to  triumph. 
DON  AMADOR  remains  silent  and  confused.} 

The  Placa  Santiago  during  busy  market-time.  Mules 
and  asses  laden  with  fruits  and  vegetables.  Stalls  and 
booths  filled  with  ivares  of  all  sorts.  A  crowd  of  buyers 
and  sellers.  A  stalwart  woman,  with  keen  eyes,  lean- 
ing over  the  panniers  of  a  mule  laden  with  apples, 
watches  LORENZO,  who  is  Ringing  through  the  mar- 
ket. As  he  approaches  her,  he  is  met  by  BLASCO. 

LORENZO. 
Well  met,  friend. 

BLASCO. 

Ay,  for  we  are  soon  to  part, 
And  I  would  see  you  at  the  hostelry, 
To  take  iny  reckoning.     I  go  forth  to-day. 

LORENZO. 

"Tis  grievous  parting  with  good  company. 
I  would  I  had  the  gold  to  pay  such  guests 
For  all  my  pleasure  in  their  talk. 

BLASCO. 

Why,  yes; 

A  solid-headed  man  of  Aragon 
Has  matter  in  him  that  you  Southerners  lack. 
You  like  my  company — 'tis  natural. 
But,  look  you,  I  have  done  my  business  well, 
Have  sold  and  ta'en  commissions.     I  come  straight 
From — you  know  who — I  like  not  naming  him. 
I'm  a  thick  man :  you  reach  not  my  backbone 
With  any  toothpick j  but  I  tell  you  this: 


154  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

He  reached  it  with  his  eye,  right  to  the  marrow. 
It  gave  me  heart  that  I  had  plate  to  sell, 
For,  saint  or  no  saint,  a  good  silversmith 
Is  wanted  for  God's  service;  and  my  plate — 
He  judged  it  well — bought  nobly. 

LORENZO. 

A  great  man, 
And  holy ! 

BLASCO. 

Yes,  I'm  glad  I  leave  to-day. 
For  there  are  stories  give  a  sort  of  smell — 
One's  nose  has  fancies.     A  good  trader,  sir, 
Likes  not  this  plague  of  lapsing  in  the  air, 
Most  caught  by  men  with  funds.     And  they  do  say 
There's  a  great  terror  here  in  Moors  and  Jews, 
I  would  say,  Christians  of  unhappy  blood. 
'Tis  monstrous,  sure,  that  men  of  substance  lapse, 
And  risk  their  property.     I  know  I'm  sound. 
No  heresy  was  ever  bait  to  me.     Whate'er 
Is  the  right  faith,  that  I  believe — nought  else. 

LORENZO. 

Ay,  truly,  for  the  flavor  of  true  faith 

Once  known  must  sure  be  sweetest  to  the  taste. 

But  an  uneasy  mood  is  now  abroad 

Within  the  town ;  partly,  for  that  the  Duke 

Being  sorely  sick,  has  yielded  the  command 

To  Don  Diego,  a  most  valiant  man, 

More  Catholic  than  the  Holy  Father's  self, 

Half  chiding  God  that  He  will  tolerate 

A  Jew  or  Arab;  though  'tis  plain  they're  made 

For  profit  of  good  Christians.     And  weak  heads — 

Panic  will  knit  all  disconnected  facts — 

Draw  hence  belief  in  evil  auguries, 

Rumors  of  accusation  and  arrest, 

All  air-begotten.     Sir,  you  need  not  go. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  155 

But  if  it  must  be  so,  I'll  follow  you 
In  fifteen  minutes — finish  marketing, 
Then  be  at  home  to  speed  you  on  your  way. 

BLASCO. 

Do  so.     I'll  back  to  Saragossa  straight. 

The  court  and  nobles  are  retiring  now 

And  wending  northward.     There'll  be  fresh  demand 

For  bells  and  images  against  the  Spring, 

When  doubtless  our  great  Catholic  sovereigns 

Will  move  to  conquest  of  these  eastern  parts, 

And  cleanse  Granada  from  the  infidel. 

Stay,  sir,  with  God,  until  we  meet  again ! 

LORENZO. 

Go,  sir,  with  God,  until  I  follow  you! 

{Exit  BLASCO.  LORENZO  passes  on  toward  the  mar- 
ket-woman, who,  as  he  approaches,  raises  herself 
from  her  leaning  attitude.} 

LORENZO. 

Good  day,  my  mistress.     How's  your  merchandise? 

Fit  for  a  host  to  buy?     Your  apples  now, 

They  have  fair  cheeks;  how  are  they  at  the  core? 

MARKET-WOMAN. 

Good,  good,  sir!     Taste  and  try.     See,  here  is  one 
Weighs  a  man's  head.     The  best  are  bound  with  tow : 
They're  worth  the  pains,  to  keep  the  peel  from  splits. 
(She  takes  out  an  apple  bound  with  tow,  and,  as  she 
puts  it  into  LORENZO'S  hand,   speaks  in  a  lower 
tone. ) 

'Tis  called  the  Miracle.     You  open  it, 
And  find  it  full  of  speech. 


156  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

LORENZO. 

Ay,  give  it  me, 

I'll  take  it  to  the  Doctor  in  the  tower. 
He  feeds  on  fruit,  and  if  he  likes  the  sort 
I'll  buy  them  for  him.     Meanwhile  drive  your  ass 
Round  to  my  hostelry.     I'll  straight  be  there. 
You'll  not  refuse  some  barter? 

MARKET- WOMAK. 

No,  not  I. 
Feathers  and  skins. 

LORENZO. 

Good,  till  we  meet  again. 

(LORENZO,  after  smelling  at  the  apple,  puts  it  into  a 
pouch-like  basket  which  hangs  before  him,  and 
walks  away.  The  woman  drives  off  the  mule.) 

A  LETTER. 

"  Zarca,  the  chieftain  of  the  Gypsies,  greets 

"  The  King  El  Zagal.     Let  the  force  be  sent 

"  With  utmost  swiftness  to  the  Pass  of  Luz. 

"  A  good  five  hundred  added  to  my  bands 

"  Will  master  all  the  garrison :  the  town 

"  Is  half  with  us,  and  will  not  lift  an  arm 

"  Save  on  our  side.     My  scouts  have  found  a  way 

"Where  once  we  thought  the  fortress  most  secure: 

"  Spying  a  man  upon  the  height,  they  traced, 

"  By  keen  conjecture  piercing  broken  sight, 

"  His  downward  path,  and  found  its  issue.     There 

"  A  file  of  us  can  mount,  surprise  the  fort 

"  And  give  the  signal  to  our  friends  within 

"  To  ope  the  gates  for  our  confederate  bands, 

"  Who  will  lie  eastward  ambushed  by  the  rocks, 

"  Waiting  the  night.     Enough ;  give  me  command, 

"  Bedmar  is  yours.     Chief  Zarca  will  redeem 

"  His  pledge  of  highest  service  to  the  Moor; 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

"  Let  the  Moor  too  be  faithful  and  repay 
"  The  Gypsy  with  the  furtherance  he  needs 
*'  To  lead  his  people  over  Bahr  el  Seham 
"  And  plant  them  on  the  shore  of  Africa. 
"  So  may  the  King  El  Zagal  live  as  one 
"Who,  trusting  Allah  will  be  true  to  him, 
"  Maketh  himself  as  Allah  true  to  friends, " 


BOOK   III. 


QUIT  now  the  town,  and  with  a  journeying  dream 

Swift  as  the  wings  of  sound  yet  seeming  slow 

Through  multitudinous  pulsing  of  stored  sense 

And  spiritual  space,  see  walls  and  towers 

Lie  in  the  silent  whiteness  of  a  trance, 

Giving  no  sign  of  that  warm  life  within 

That  moves  and  murmurs  through  their  hidden  heart. 

Pass  o'er  the  mountain,  wind  in  sombre  shade, 

Then  wind  into  the  light  and  see  the  town 

Shrunk  to  white  crust  upon  the  darker  rock. 

Turn  east  and  south,  descend,  then  rise  anew 

'Mid  smaller  mountains  ebbing  toward  the  plain: 

Scent  the  fresh  breath  of  the  height-loving  herbs 

That,  trodden  by  the  pretty  parted  hoofs 

Of  nimble  goats,  sigh  at  the  innocent  bruise, 

And  with  a  mingled  difference  exquisite 

Pour  a  sweet  burden  on  the  buoyant  air. 

Pause  now  and  be  all  ear.     Far  from  the  south, 

Seeking  the  listening  silence  of  the  heights, 

Comes  a  slow-dying  sound — the  Moslems'  call 

To  prayer  in  afternoon.     Bright  in  the  sun 

Like  tall  white  sails  on  a  green  shadowy  sea 

Stand  Moorish  watch-towers :  'neath  that  eastern  sky 

Couches  unseen  the  strength  of  Moorish  Baza; 

Where  the  meridian  bends  lies  Guadix,  hold 

Of  brave  El  Zagal.     This  is  Moorish  land, 

Where  Allah  lives  unconquered  in  dark  breasts 

And  blesses  still  the  many-nourishing  earth 

With  dark-armed  industry.     See  from  the  steep 

The  scattered  olives  hurry  in  gray  throngs 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  159 

Down  toward  the  valley,  where  the  little  stream 

Parts  a  green  hollow  'twixt  the  gentler  slopes; 

And  in  that  hollow,  dwellings :  not  white  homes 

Of  building  Moors,  but  little  swarthy  tents 

Such  as  of  old  perhaps  on  Asian  plains, 

Or  wending  westward  past  the  Caucasus, 

Our  fathers  raised  to  rest  in.     Close  they  swarm 

About  two  taller  tents,  and  viewed  afar 

Might  seem  a  dark-robed  crowd  in  penitence 

That  silent  kneel;  but  come  now  in  their  midst 

And  watch  a  busy,  bright-eyed,  sportive  life! 

Tall  maidens  bend  to  feed  the  tethered  goat, 

The  ragged  kirtle  fringing  at  the  knee 

Above  the  living  curves,  the  shoulder's  smoothness 

Parting  the  torrent  strong  of  ebon  hair. 

Women  with  babes,  the  wild  and  neutral  glance 

Swayed  now  to  sweet  desire  of  mothers'  eyes, 

Kock  their  strong  cradling  arms  and  chant  low  strains 

Taught  by  monotonous  and  soothing  winds 

That  fall  at  night-time  on  the  dozing  ear. 

The  crones  plait  reeds,  or  shred  the  vivid  herbs 

Into  the  caldron :  tiny  urchins  crawl 

Or  sit  and  gurgle  forth  their  infant  joy. 

Lads  lying  sphynx-like  with  uplifted  breast 

Propped  on  their  elbows,  their  black  manes  tossed  back, 

Fling  up  the  coin  and  watch  its  fatal  fall, 

Dispute  and  scramble,  run  and  wrestle  fierce, 

Then  fall  to  play  and  fellowship  again; 

Or  in  a  thieving  swarm  they  run  to  plague 

The  grandsires,  who  return  with  rabbits  slung, 

And  with  the  mules  fruit-laden  from  the  fields. 

Some  striplings  choose  the  smooth  stones  from  the  brook 

To  serve  the  slingers,  cut  the  twigs  for  snares, 

Or  trim  the  hazel-wands,  or  at  the  bark 

Of  some  exploring  dog  they  dart  away 

With  swift  precision  toward  a  moving  speck. 

These  are  the  brood  of  Zarca's  Gypsy  tribe; 

Most  like  an  earth-born  race  bred  by  the  Sun 

On  some  rich  tropic  soil,  the  father's  light 


160  POEMS  OF  GEORGE   ELIOT. 

Flashing  in  coal-black  eyes,  the  mother's  blood 
With  bounteous  elements  feeding  their  young  limbs. 
The  stalwart  men  and  youths  are  at  the  wars 
Following  their  chief,  all  save  a  trusty  band 
Who  keep  strict  watch  along  the  northern  heights. 

But  see,  upon  a  pleasant  spot  removed 

From  the  camp's  hubbub,  where  the  thicket  strong 

Of  huge-eared  cactus  makes  a  bordering  curve 

And  casts  a  shadow,  lies  a  sleeping  man 

With  Spanish  hat  screening  his  upturned  face, 

His  doublet  loose,  his  right  arm  backward  flung, 

His  left  caressing  close  the  long-necked  lute 

That  seems  to  sleep  too,  leaning  tow'rd  its  lord. 

He  draws  deep  breath  secure  but  not  unwatched. 

Moving  a-tiptoe,  silent  as  the  elves, 

As  mischievous  too,  trip  three  bare-footed  girls 

Not  opened  yet  to  womanhood — dark  flowers 

In  slim  long  buds :  some  paces  farther  off 

Gathers  a  little  white-teethed  shaggy  group, 

A  grinning  chorus  to  the  merry  play. 

The  tripping  girls  have  robbed  the  sleeping  man 

Of  all  his  ornaments.     Hita  is  decked 

With  an  embroidered  scarf  across  her  rags ; 

Tralla,  with  thorns  for  pins,  sticks  two  rosettes 

Upon  her  threadbare  woollen ;  Hinda  now, 

Prettiest  and  boldest,  tucks  her  kirtle  up 

As  wallet  for  the  stolen  buttons — then 

Bends  with  her  knife  to  cut  from  off  the  hat 

The  aigrette  and  long  feather ;  deftly  cuts, 

Yet  wakes  the  sleeper,  who  with  sudden  start 

Shakes  off  the  masking  hat  and  shows  the  face 

Of  Juan :  Hinda  swift  as  thought  leaps  back, 

But  carries  off  the  spoil  triumphantly, 

And  leads  the  chorus  of  a  happy  laugh, 

Running  with  all  the  naked-footed  imps, 

Till  with  safe  survey  all  can  face  about 

And  watch  for  signs  of  stimulating  chase, 

While  Hinda  ties  long  grass  around  her  brow 


"  His  doublet  loose,  his  right  arm  backward  flung. 
His  left  caressing  close  the  long-necked  lute."— Page  160. 

Eliot— Spanish  Gypsy. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  161 

To  stick  the  feather  in  with  majesty. 
Juan  still  sits  contemplative,  with  looks 
Alternate  at  the  spoilers  and  their  work. 

JUAN. 

Ah,  you  marauding  kite — niy  feather  gone! 

My  belt,  my  scarf,  my  buttons  and  rosettes! 

This  is  to  be  a  brother  of  your  tribe! 

The  fiery -blooded  children  of  the  Sun — 

So  says  chief  Zarca — children  of  the  Sun ! 

Ay,  ay,  the  black  and  stinging  flies  he  breeds 

To  plague  the  decent  body  of  mankind. 

"  Orpheus,  professor  of  the  gai  saber, 

Made  all  the  brutes  polite  by  dint  of  song." 

Pregnant — but  as  a  guide  in  daily  life 

Delusive.     For  if  song  and  music  cure 

The  barbarous  trick  of  thieving,  'tis  a  cure 

That  works  as  slowly  as  old  Doctor  Time 

In  curing  folly.      Why,  the  minxes  there 

Have  rhythm  in  their  toes,  and  music  rings 

As  readily  from  them  as  from  little  bells 

Swung  by  the  breeze.     Well,  I  will  try  the  physic. 

(He  touches  his  lute.) 
Hem !  taken  rightly,  any  single  thing, 
The  Rabbis  say,  implies  all  other  things. 
A  knotty  task,  though,  the  unravelling 
Meum.siud  Tuum  from  a  saraband: 
It  needs  a  subtle  logic,  nay,  perhaps 
A  good  large  property,  to  see  the  thread. 

(He  touches  the  lute  again.) 
There's  more  of  odd  than  even  in  this  world. 
Else  pretty  sinners  would  not  be  let  off 
Sooner  than  ugly ;  for  if  honeycombs 
Are  to  be  got  by  stealing,  they  should  go 
Where  life  is  bitterest  on  the  tongue.     And  yet — 
Because  this  minx  has  pretty  ways  I  wink 
At  all  her  tricks,  though  if  a  flat-faced  lass, 
With  eyes  askew,  were  half  as  bold  as  she, 
11 


162  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

I  would  chastise  her  with  a  hazel  switch. 

I'm  a  plucked  peacock — even  my  voice  and  wit 

Without  a  tail !  — why,  any  fool  detects 

The  absence  of  your  tail,  but  twenty  fools 

May  not  detect  the  presence  of  your  wit. 

(He  touches  his  lute  again.] 

Well,  I  must  coax  my  tail  back  cunningly, 

For  to  run  after  these  brown  lizards — ah! 

I  think  the  lizards  lift  their  ears  at  this. 

(As  he  thrums  his  lute  the  lads  and  girls  gradually 
approach :  he  touches  it  more  briskly,  and  HINDA, 
advancing,  begins  to  move  arms  and  legs  with  an 
initiatory  dancing  movement,  smiling  coaxingly  at 
JUAN.  He  suddenly  stops,  lays  down  his  lute  and 
folds  his  arms.) 

JUAN. 
What,  you  expect  a  tune  to  dance  to,  eh? 

HINDA,  HITA,  TRALLA,  AND  THE  BEST 
(clapping  their  hands). 

Yes,  yes,  a  tune,  a  tune ! 

JUAN. 

But  that  is  what  you  cannot  have,  my  sweet  brothers  and 
sisters.  The  tunes  are  all  dead — dead  as  the  tunes  of  the 
lark  when  you  have  plucked  his  wings  off;  dead  as  the  song 
of  the  grasshopper  when  the  ass  has  swallowed  him.  I  can 
play  and  sing  no  more.  Hinda  has  killed  my  tunes. 

(All  cry  out  in  consternation.  HINDA  gives  a  ivail 
and  tries  to  examine  the  lute.} 

JUAN  (waving  her  off). 

Understand,  Seilora  Hinda,  that  the  tunes  are  in  me;  they 
are  not  in  the  lute  till  I  put  them  there.  And  if  you  cross 
my  humor,  I  shall  be  as  tuneless  as  a  bag  of  wool.  If  the 
tunes  are  to  be  brought  to  life  again,  I  must  have  my  feather 
back. 

(HiNDA  kisses  his  hands  and  feet  coaxingly.) 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY. 

No,  no!  not  a  note  will  come  for  coaxing.  The  feather,  I 
say,  the  feather! 

(HiNDA  sorrow/idly  takes  off  the  feather  and  gives  it 

to  JUAN.) 
Ah,  now  let  us  see.     Perhaps  a  tune  will  come. 

(He  plays  a  measure,  and  the  three  girls  begin  to 
dance  ;  then  he  suddenly  stops. ) 

JUAN. 

No,  the  tune  will  not  come :  it  wants  the  aigrette  (pointing 
to  it  on  Hindd's  neck). 

(HiNDA,  with  rather  less  hesitation,  but  again  sor- 
rowfully, takes  off  the  aigrette,  and  gives  it  to  him. ) 

JUAN. 

Ha!  (He plays  again,  but,  after  rather  a  longer  time,  again 
stops.)  No,  no;  'tis  the  buttons  are  wanting,  Hinda,  the  but- 
tons. This  tune  feeds  chiefly  on  buttons — a  greedy  tune.  It 
wants  one,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six.  Good. 

(After  HINDA  has  given  up  the  buttons,  and  JUAN 
has  laid,  them  down  one  by  one,  he  begins  to  play 
again,  going  on  longer  than  before,  so  that  the 
dancers  become  excited  by  the  movement.  Then  he 
stops.) 

JUAN. 

Ah,  Hita,  it  is  the  belt,  and,  Tralla,  the  rosettes — both  are 
wanting.  I  see  the  tune  will  not  go  ou  without  them. 

(HiTA  and  TRALLA  take  off  the  belt  and  rosettes,  and 
lay  them  down  quickly,  being  fired  by  the  dancing, 
and  eager  for  the  music.  All  the  articles  lie  by 
JUAN'S  side  on  the  ground.) 

JUAN. 

Good,  good,  my  docile  wild-cats!  Now  I  think  the  tunes 
are  all  alive  again.  Now  you  may  dance  and  sing  too. 
Hinda,  my  little  screamer,  lead  off  with  the  song  I  taught 


164  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

you,  and  let  us  see  if  the  tune  will  go  right  on  from  beginning 
to  end. 

(He  plays.      The  dance  begins  again,  HIXDA  singing. 

All  the  other  boys  and  girls  join  in  the  chorus,  and 

all  at  last  dance  wildly.) 

SONG. 

All  things  journey :  sun  and  moon, 
Morning,  noon,  and  afternoon, 

Night  and  all  her  stars : 
'  Twixt  the  east  and  western  bars 

Round  they  journey, 
Come  and  go  ! 

We  go  with  them  ! 
For  to  roam  and  ever  roam 
Is  the  ZincaWs  loved  home. 

Earth  is  good,  the  hillside  breaks 
By  the  ashen  roots  and  makes 

Hungry  nostrils  glad  : 
Then  we  run  till  we  are  mad, 

Like  the  horses, 
And  we  cry, 

None  shall  catch  us  ! 
Swift  winds  wing  us — we  are  free — 
Drink  the  air — we  Zmcali  ! 

Falls  the  snow :  the  pine-branch  split, 
Call  the  fire  out,  see  it  flit, 

Through  the  dry  leaves  run, 
Spread  and  glow,  and  make  a  sun, 

In  the  dark  tent : 
0  warm  dark  ! 

Warm  as  conies  ! 

Strong  fire  loves  us,  we  are  warm  ! 
Who  the  Zmcali  shall  harm  ? 

Onward  journey :  fires  are  spent ; 
Sunward,  sunward  !  lift  the  tent. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  165 

Run  before  the  rain, 
Through  the  pass,  along  the  plain. 

Hurry,  hurry, 

Lift  us,  wind  ! 

Like  the  horses. 
For  to  roam  and  ever  roam, 
Is  the  Zmcali's  loved  home. 

(When  the  dance  is  at  its  height,  HINDA  breaks 
away  from  the  rest,  and  dances  round  JUAN,  who  is 
now  standing.  As  he  turns  a  little  to  watch  her 
movement,  some  of  the  boys  skip  toward  the  feath- 
er, aigrette,  etc.,  snatch  them  up,  and  run  away, 
swiftly  followed  by  HITA,  TRALLA,  and  the  rest. 
HINDA,  as  she  turns  again,  sees  them,  screams,  and 
falls  in  her  whirling  ;  but  immediately  gets  up,  and 
rushes  after  them,  still  screaming  with  rage.) 

JUAN. 

Santiago!  these  imps  get  bolder.  Haha!  Senora  Hinda, 
this  finishes  your  lesson  in  ethics.  You  have  seen  the  advan- 
tage of  giving  up  stolen  goods.  Now  you  see  the  ugliness  of 
thieving  when  practised  by  others.  That  fable  of  mine  about 
the  tunes  was  excellently  devised.  I  feel  like  an  ancient  sage 
instructing  our  lisping  ancestors.  My  memory  will  descend 
as  the  Orpheus  of  Gypsies.  But  I  must  prepare  a  rod  for 
those  rascals.  I'll  bastinado  them  with  prickly  pears.  It 
seems  to  me  these  needles  will  have  a  sound  moral  teaching  in 
them. 

( While  JUAN  takes  a  knife  from  his  belt,  and  surveys 
a  bush  of  the  prickly  pear,  HINDA  returns.) 

JUAN. 

Pray,  Senora,  why  do  you  fume?  Did  you  want  to  steal 
my  ornaments  again  yourself? 

HINDA  (sobbing). 
No ;  I  thought  you  would  give  them  me  back  again. 


166  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


JUAN. 

What,  did  you  want  the  tunes  to  die  again?  Do  you  like 
finery  better  than  dancing? 

HINDA. 

Oh,  that  was  a  tale !  I  shall  tell  tales  too,  when  I  want  to 
get  anything  I  can't  steal.  And  I  know  what  I  will  do.  I 
shall  tell  the  boys  I've  found  some  little  foxes,  and  I  will 
never  say  where  they  are  till  they  give  me  back  the  feather ! 

(She  runs  off  again.) 

JUAN. 

Hem !  the  disciple  seems  to  seize  the  mode  sooner  than  the 
matter.     Teaching  virtue  with  this  prickly  pear  may  only 
teach  the  youngsters  to  use  a  new  weapon ;  as  your  teaching 
orthodoxy  with  faggots  may  only  bring  up  a  fashion  of  roast- 
ing.    Dios!    my  remarks  grow  too  pregnant — my  wits  get  a 
plethora  by  solitary  feeding  on  the  produce  of  my  own  wisdom. 
(As  he.  puts  up  his  knife  again,  HINDA  comes  run- 
ning back,  and  crying,  "  Our  Queen  !  our  Queen  !  " 
JUAN    adjusts    his   garments   and    his  lute,  while 
HINDA  turns  to  meet  FED  ALMA,  who  wears  a  Moor- 
ish dress,    her  black  hair  hanging  round   her  in 
plaits,  a  white  turban  on  her  head,  a  dagger  by  her 
side.     She  carries  a  scarf  on   her  left  arm,  which 
she  holds  up  as  a  shade.) 

FED  ALMA  (patting  HINDA'S  head). 

How  now,  wild  one?  You  are  hot  and  panting.  Go  to  my 
tent,  and  help  Nouna  to  plait  reeds. 

(HiNDA  kisses  FEDALMA'S  hand,  and  runs  off.  FE- 
DALMA  advances  toward  JUAN,  who  kneels  to  take 
up  the  edge  of  her  cymar,  and  kisses  it 

JUAN. 
How  is  it  with  you,  lady?     You  look  sad. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  167 


FEDALMA. 

Oh,  I  am  sick  at  heart.     The  eye  of  day, 

The  insistent  summer  sun,  seems  pitiless, 

Shining  in  all  the  barren  crevices 

Of  weary  life,  leaving  no  shade,  no  dark, 

Where  I  may  dream  that  hidden  waters  lie ; 

As  pitiless  as  to  some  shipwrecked  man, 

Who  gazing  from  his  narrow  shoal  of  sand 

On  the  wide  unspecked  round  of  blue  and  blue 

Sees  that  full  light  is  errorless  despair. 

The  insects'  hum  that  slurs  the  silent  dark 

Startles  and  seems  to  cheat  me,  as  the  tread 

Of  coming  footsteps  cheats  the  midnight  watcher 

Who  holds  her  heart  and  waits  to  hear  them  pause, 

And  hears  them  never  pause,  but  pass  and  die. 

Music  sweeps  by  me  as  a  messenger 

Carrying  a  message  that  is  not  for  me. 

The  very  sameness  of  the  hills  and  sky 

Is  obduracy,  and  the  lingering  hours 

Wait  round  me  dumbly,  like  superfluous  slaves, 

Of  whom  I  want  nought  but  the  secret  news 

They  are  forbid  to  tell.     And,  Juan,  you — 

You,  too,  are_cruel — would  be  over-wise 

In  judging  your  friend's  needs,  and  choose  to  hide 

Something  I  crave  to  know. 

JUAN. 

I,  lady? 

ED  ALMA. 

You. 
JUAN. 

I  never  had  the  virtue  to  hide  aught, 
Save  what  a  man  is  whipped  for  publishing. 
I'm  no  more  reticent  than  the  voluble  air — 
.Dote  on  disclosure — never  could  contain 


168  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

The  latter  half  of  all  my  sentences, 

But  for  the  need  to  utter  the  beginning. 

My  lust  to  tell  is  so  importunate 

That  it  abridges  every  other  vice, 

And  makes  me  temperate  for  want  of  time. 

I  dull  sensation  in  the  haste  to  say 

'Tis  this  or  that,  and  choke  report  with  surmise. 

Judge,  then,  dear  lady,  if  I  could  be  mute 

When  but  a  glance  of  yours  had  bid  me  speak. 

FED  ALMA. 

Nay,  sing  such  falsities ! — you  mock  me  worse 

By  speech  that  gravely  seems  to  ask  belief. 

You  are  but  babbling  in  a  part  you  play 

To  please  my  father.     Oh,  'tis  well  meant,  say  you- 

Pity  for  woman's  weakness.     Take  my  thanks. 

JUAN. 

Thanks  angrily  bestowed  are  red-hot  coin 
Burning  your  servant's  palm. 

FED  ALMA. 

Deny  it  not, 

You  know  how  many  leagues  this  camp  of  ours 
Lies  from  Bedmar — what  mountains  lie  between — • 
Could  tell  me  if  you  would  about  the  Duke — 
That  he  is  comforted,  sees  how  he  gains 
Losing  the  Zincala,  finds  now  how  slight 
The  thread  Fedalma  made  in  that  rich  web, 
A  Spanish  noble's  life.     No,  that  is  false! 
He  never  would  think  lightly  of  our  love. 
Some  evil  has  befallen  him — he's  slain — 
Has  sought  for  danger  and  has  beckoned  death 
Because  I  made  all  life  seem  treachery. 
Tell  me  the  worst — be  merciful — no  worst, 
Against  the  hideous  painting  of  my  fear, 
Would  not  show  like  a  better. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  169 

JUAN. 

If  I  speak, 

Will  you  believe  your  slave?     For  truth  is  scant; 
And  where  the  appetite  is  still  to  hear 
And  not  believe,  falsehood  would  stint  it  less. 
How  say  you?     Does  your  hunger's  fancy  choose 
The  meagre  fact? 

FED  ALMA  (seating  herself  on  the  ground). 

Yes,  yes,  the  truth,  dear  Juan. 
Sit  now,  and  tell  me  all. 

JUAN. 

That  all  is  nought. 
I  can  unleash  my  fancy  if  you  wish 
And  hunt  for  phantoms :  shoot  an  airy  guess 
And  bring  down  airy  likelihood — some  lie 
Masked  cunningly  to  look  like  royal  truth 
And  cheat  the  shooter,  while  King  Fact  goes  free ; 
Or  else  some  image  of  reality 
That  doubt  will  handle  and  reject  as  false. 
As  for  conjecture — I  can  thread  the  sky 
Like  any  swallow,  but,  if  you  insist 
On  knowledge  that  would  guide  a  pair  of  feet 
Eight  to  Bedmar,  across  the  Moorish  bounds, 
A  mule  that  dreams  of  stumbling  over  stones 
Is  better  stored. 

FEDALMA. 

And  you  have  gathered  nought 
About  the  border  wars?     No  news,  no  hint 
Of  any  rumors  that  concern  the  Duke — 
Burners  kept  from  me  by  my  father? 

JUAN. 

None. 

Your  father  trusts  no  secret  to  the  echoes. 
Of  late  his  movements  have  been  hid  from  all 


170  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Save  those  few  hundred  chosen  Gypsy  breasts 

He  carries  with  him.     Think  you  he's  a  man 

To  let  his  projects  slip  from  out  his  belt, 

Then  whisper  him  who  haps  to  find  them  strayed 

To  be  so  kind  as  keep  his  counsel  well? 

Why,  if  he  found  me  knowing  aught  too  much, 

He  would  straight  gag  or  strangle  me,  and  say, 

"Poor  hound!  it  was  a  pity  that  his  bark 

Could  chance  to  mar  my  plans :  he  loved  my  daughter. 

The  idle  hound  had  nought  to  do  but  love, 

So  followed  to  the  battle  and  got  crushed." 

FEDALMA  (holding  out  her  hand,  which  JUAN  kisses'). 

Good  Juan,  I  could  have  no  nobler  friend. 

You'd  ope  your  veins  and  let  your  life-blood  out 

To  save  another's  pain,  yet  hide  the  deed 

With  jesting — say,  'twas  merest  accident, 

A  sportive  scratch  that  went  by  chance  too  deep — 

And  die  content  with  men's  slight  thoughts  of  you, 

Finding  your  glory  in  another's  joy. 

JUAN. 

Dub  not  my  likings  virtues,  lest  they  get 
A  drug-like  taste,  and  breed  a  nausea. 
Honey's  not  sweet,  commended  as  cathartic. 
Such  names  are  parchment  labels  upon  gems 
Hiding  their  color.     What  is  lovely  seen 
Priced  in  a  tarif  ? — lapis  lazuli, 
Such  bulk,  so  many  drachmas :  amethysts 
Quoted  at  so  much ;  sapphires  higher  still. 
The  stone  like  solid  heaven  in  its  blueness 
Is  what  I  care  for,  not  its  name  or  price. 
So,  if  I  live  or  die  to  serve  my  friend, 
'Tis  for  my  love — 'tis  for  my  friend  alone, 
And  not  for  any  rate  that  friendship  bears 
In  heaven  or  on  earth.     Nay,  I  romance — 
I  talk  of  Roland  and  the  ancient  peers. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  171 

In  me  'tis  hardly  friendship,  only  lack 
Of  a  substantial  self  that  holds  a  weight; 
So  I  kiss  larger  things  and  roll  with  them. 

FEDALMA. 

Oh,  you  will  never  hide  your  soul  from  me ; 

I've  seen  the  jewel's  flash,  and  know  'tis  there, 

Muffle  it  as  you  will.     That  foam-like  talk 

Will  not  wash  out  a  fear  which  blots  the  good 

Your  presence  brings  me.     Oft  I'm  pierced  afresh 

Through  all  the  pressure  of  my  selfish  griefs 

By  thought  of  you.     It  was  a  rash  resolve  , 

Made  you  disclose  yourself  when  you  kept  watch 

About  the  terrace  wall : — your  pity  leaped, 

Seeing  alone  my  ills  and  not  your  loss, 

Self -doomed  to  exile.     Juan,  you  must  repent. 

'Tis  not  in  nature  that  resolve,  which  feeds 

On  strenuous  actions,  should  not  pine  and  die 

In  these  long  days  of  empty  listlessness. 


JUAN. 

Repent?     Not  I.     Repentance  is  the  weight 

Of  indigested  meals  ta'en  yesterday. 

'Tis  for  large  animals  that  gorge  on  prey, 

Not  for  a  honey-sipping  butterfly. 

I  am  a  thing  of  rhythm  and  redondillas — 

The  momentary  rainbow  on  the  spray 

Made  by  the  thundering  torrent  of  men's  lives : 

No  matter  whether  I  am  here  or  there ; 

I  still  catch  sunbeams.      And  in  Africa, 

Where  melons  and  all  fruits,  they  say,  grow  large, 

Fables  are  real,  and  the  apes  polite, 

A  poet,  too,  may  prosper  past  belief: 

I  shall  grow  epic,  like  the  Florentine, 

And  sing  the  founding  of  our  infant  state, 

Sing  the  new  Gypsy  Carthage. 


172  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

FED  ALMA. 

Africa ! 

Would  we  were  there!     Under  another  heaven, 
In  lands  where  neither  love  nor  memory 
Can  plant  a  selfish  hope — in  lands  so  far 
I  should  not  seem  to  see  the  outstretched  arms 
That  seek  me,  or  to  hear  the  voice  that  calls. 
I  should  feel  distance  only  and  despair ; 
So  rest  for  ever  from  the  thought  of  bliss, 
And  wear  my  weight  of  life's  great  chain  unstruggling. 
Juan,  if  I  could  know  he  would  forget — 
,        Nay,  not  forget,  forgive  me — be  content 
That  I  forsook  him  for  no  joy,  but  sorrow, 
For  sorrow  chosen  rather  than  a  joy 
That  destiny  made  base !     Then  he  would  taste 
No  bitterness  in  sweet,  sad  memory, 
And  I  should  live  unblemished  in  his  thought, 
Hallowed  like  her  who  dies  an  unwed  bride. 
Our  words  have  wings,  but  fly  not  where  we  would. 
Could  mine  but  reach  him,  Juan! 

JUAN. 

Speak  the  wish — 

My  feet  have  wings — I'll  be  your  Mercury. 
I  fear  no  shadowed  perils  by  the  way. 
No  man  will  wear  the  sharpness  of  his  sword 
On  me.     Nay,  I'm  a  herald  of  the  Muse, 
Sacred  for  Moors  and  Spaniards.     I  will  go — 
Will  fetch  you  tidings  for  an  amulet. 
But  stretch  not  hope  too  strongly  toward  that  mark 
As  issue  of  my  wandering.     Given,  I  cross 
Safely  the  Moorish  border,  reach  Bedmar : 
Fresh  counsels  may  prevail  there,  and  the  Duke 
Being  absent  in  the  field,  I  may  be  trapped. 
Men  who  are  sour  at  missing  larger  game 
May  wing  a  chattering  sparrow  for  revenge. 
It  is  a  chance  no  further  worth  the  note 
Than  as  a  warning,  lest  you  feared  worse  ill 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  173 

If  my  return  were  stayed.     I  might  be  caged; 
They  would  not  harm  me  else.     Untimely  death, 
The  red  auxiliary  of  the  skeleton, 
Has  too  much  work  on  hand  to  think  of  me ; 
Or,  if  he  cares  to  slay  me,  I  shall  fall 
Choked  with  a  grape-stone  for  economy. 
The  likelier  chance  is  that  I  go  and  come 
Bringing  you  comfort  back. 

FEDALMA  (starts  from  her  seat  and  walks  to  a  little  dis- 
tance, standing  a  few  moments  with  her  back  toward 
JUAN,  then  she  turns  round  quickly,  and  goes  toward 
him) . 

No,  Juan,  no! 

Those  yearning  words  came  from  a  soul  infirm, 
Crying  and  struggling  at  the  pain  of  bonds 
Which  yet  it  would  not  loosen.      He  knows  all— 
All  that  he  needs  to  know :  I  said  farewell': 
I  stepped  across  the  cracking  earth  and  knew 
'Twould  yawn  behind  me.     I  must  walk  right  on. 
No,  I  will  not  win  aught  by  risking  you : 
That  risk  would  poison  my  poor  hope.     Besides 
'Twere  treachery  in  me :  my  father  wills 
That  we — all  here — should  rest  within  this  camp. 
If  I  can  never  live,  like  him,  on  faith 
In  glorious  morrows,  I  am  resolute. 
While  he  treads  painfully  with  stillest  step 
And  beady  brow,  pressed  'neath  the  weight  of  arms, 
Shall  I,  to  ease  my  fevered  restlessness, 
Raise  peevish  moans,  shattering  that  fragile  silence? 
No !     On  the  close-thronged  spaces  of  the  earth 
A  battle  rages :  Fate  has  carried  me 
'Mid  the  thick  arrows :  I  will  keep  my  stand — 
Not  shrink  and  let  the  shaft  pass  by  my  breast 
To  pierce  another.     Oh,  'tis  written  large 
The  thing  I  have  to  do.     But  you,  dear  Juan, 
Renounce,  endure,  are  brave,  unurged  by  aught 
Save  the  sweet  overflow  of  your  good  will. 

(She  seats  herself  again.') 


174  POEMS   OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

JUAN. 

Nay,  I  endure  nought  worse  than  napping  sheep 

When  nimble  birds  uproot  a  fleecy  lock 

To  line  their  nest  with.     See !  your  bondsman,  Queen, 

The  minstrel  of  your  court,  is  featherless ; 

Deforms  your  presence  by  a  moulting  garb ; 

Shows  like  a  roadside  bush  culled  of  its  buds. 

Yet,  if  your  graciousness  will  not  disdain 

A  poor  plucked  songster — shall  he  sing  to  you? 

Some  lay  of  afternoons — some  ballad  strain 

Of  those  who  ached  once  but  are  sleeping  now 

Under  the  sun -warmed  flowers?     'Twill  cheat  the  time, 

FEDALMA. 

Thanks,  Juan — later,  when  this  hour  is  passed. 
My  soul  is  clogged  with  self ;  it  could  not  float 
On  with  the  pleasing  sadness  of  your  song. 
Leave  me  in  this  green  spot,  but  come  again, — 
Come  with  the  lengthening  shadows. 

JUAN. 

Then  your  slave 
Will  go  to  chase  the  robbers.     Queen,  farewell! 

FED  ALMA. 
Best  friend,  my  well-spring  in  the  wilderness ! 

[While  Juan  sped  along  the  stream,  there  came 
From  the  dark  tents  a  ringing  joyous  shout 
That  thrilled  Fedalma  with  a  summons  grave 
Yet  welcome,  too.     Straightway  she  rose  and  stood, 
All  languor  banished,  with  a  soul  suspense, 
Like  one  who  waits  high  presence,  listening. 
Was  it  a  message,  or  her  father's  self 
That  made  the  camp  so  glad? 

It  was  himself 
She  saw  him  now  advancing,  girt  with  arms 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  175 

That  seemed  like  idle  trophies  hung  for  show 

Beside  the  weight  and  fire  of  living  strength 

That  made  his  frame.     He  glanced  with  absent  triumph, 

As  one  who  conquers  in  some  field  afar 

And  bears  off  unseen  spoil.     But  nearing  her, 

His  terrible  eyes  intense  sent  forth  new  rays — 

A  sudden  sunshine  where  the  lightning  was 

'Twixt  meeting  dark.     All  tenderly  he  laid 

His  hand  upon  her  shoulder;  tenderly 

His  kiss  upon  her  brow.] 

ZAKCA. 

My  royal  daughter! 

FEDALMA. 
Father,  I  joy  to  see  your  safe  return. 

ZARCA. 

Nay,  but  I  stole  the  time,  as  hungry  men 

Steal  from  the  morrow's  meal,  made  a  forced  march, 

Left  Hassan  as  my  watchdog,  all  to  see 

My  daughter,  and  to  feed  her  famished  hope 

With  news  of  promise: 

FEDALMA. 

Is  the  task  achieved 
That  was  to  be  the  herald  of  our  flight? 

ZARCA. 

Not  outwardly,  but  to  my  inward  vision  • 

Things  are  achieved  when  they  are  well  begun. 
The  perfect  archer  calls  the  deer  his  own 
While  yet  the  shaft  is  whistling.     His  keen  eye 
Never  sees  failure,  sees  the  mark  alone. 
You  have  heard  nought,  then — had  no  messenger? 


176  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

FEDALMA. 

I,  father?  no :  each  quiet  day  has  fled 

Like  the  same  moth,  returning  with  slow  wing, 

And  pausing  in  the  sunshine. 

ZABCA. 

It  is  well. 

You  shall  not  long  count  days  in  weariness. 
Ere  the  full  moon  has  waned  again  to  new, 
We  shall  reach  Almeria :  Berber  ships 
Will  take  us  for  their  freight,  and  we  shall  go 
With  plenteous  spoil,  not  stolen,  bravely  won 
By  service  done  on  Spaniards.     Do  you  shrink? 
Are  you  aught  less  than  a  true  Zincala? 

FEDALMA. 
No;  but  I  am  more.     The  Spaniards  fostered  me. 

ZAKCA. 

They  stole  you  first,  and  reared  you  for  the  flames. 
I  found  you,  rescued  you,  that  you  might  live 
A  Zincala' s  life ;  I  saved  you  from  their  doom. 
Your  bridal  bed  had  been  the  rack. 

FEDALMA  (in  a  low  tone). 

They  meant — 
To  seize  me? — ere  he  came? 

ZARCA. 

Yes,  I  know  all. 
They  found  your  chamber  empty. 

FEDALMA  (eagerly). 

Then  you  know— 

(  Checking  herself.  ) 

Father,  my  soul  would  be  less  laggard,  fed 
With  fuller  trust. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  177 


ZABCA. 

My  daughter,  I  must  keep 
The  Arab's  secret.     Arabs  are  our  friends, 
Grappling  for  life  with  Christians  who  lay  waste 
Granada's  valleys,  and  with  devilish  hoofs 
Trample  the  young  green  corn,  with  devilish  play 
Fell  blossomed  trees,  and  tear  up  well-pruned  vines : 
Cruel  as  tigers  to  the  vanquished  brave, 
They  wring  out  gold  by  oaths  they  mean  to  break; 
Take  pay  for  pity  and  are  pitiless ; 
Then  tinkle  bells  above  the  desolate  earth 
And  praise  their  monstrous  gods,  supposed  to  love 
The  flattery  of  liars.     I  will  strike 
The  full- gorged  dragon.     You,  my  child,  must  watch 
The  battle  with  a  heart,  not  fluttering 
But  duteous,  firm-weighted  by  resolve, 
Choosing  between  two  lives,  like  her  who  holds 
A  dagger  which  must  pierce  one  of  two  breasts, 
And  one  of  them  her  father's.     You  divine — 
I  speak  not  closely,  but  in  parables ; 
Put  one  for  many. 

FED  ALMA  (collecting  herself  and  looking  firmly  at  ZARCA). 

Then  it  is  your  will 
That  I  ask  nothing? 

ZARCA. 

You  shall  know  enough 
To  trace  the  sequence  of  the  seed  and  flower. 
El  Zagal  trusts  me,  rates  my  counsel  high : 
He,  knowing  I  have  won  a  grant  of  lands 
Within  the  Berber's  realm,  wills  me  to  be 
The  tongue  of  his  good  cause  in  Africa, 
So  gives  us  furtherance  in  our  pilgrimage 
For  service  hoped,  as  well  as  service  done 
In  that  great  feat  of  which  I  am  the  eye, 
And  my  five  hundred  Gypsies  the  best  arm. 
12 


178  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

More,  I  am  charged  by  other  noble  Moors 
With  messages  of  weight  to  Telemsan. 
Ha,  your  eye  flashes.     Are  you  glad? 

FED  ALMA. 

Yes,  glad 
That  men  can  greatly  trust  a  Zincalo. 

ZARCA. 

Why,  fighting  for  dear  life  men  choose  their  swords 
For  cutting  only,  not  for  ornament. 
What  nought  but  Nature  gives,  man  takes  perforce 
Where  she  bestows  it,  though  in  vilest  place. 
Can  he  compress  invention  out  of  pride, 
Make  heirship  do  the  work  of  muscle,  sail 
Toward  great  discoveries  with  a  pedigree? 
Sick  men  ask  cures,  and  Nature  serves  not  hers 
Daintily  as  a  feast.     A  blacksmith  once 
Founded  a  dynasty,  and  raised  on  high 
The  leathern  apron  over  armies  spread 
Between  the  mountains  like  a  lake  of  steel. 

FEDALMA  (bitterly). 

To  be  contemned,  then,  is  fair  augury. 
That  pledge  of  future  good  at  least  is  ours. 

ZARCA. 

Let  men  contemn  us :  'tis  such  blind  contempt 

That  leaves  the  winged  broods  to  thrive  in  warmth 

Unheeded,  till  they  fill  the  air  like  storms. 

So  we  shall  thrive — still  darkly  shall  draw  force 

Into  a  new  and  multitudinous  life 

That  likeness  fashions  to  community, 

Mother  divine  of  customs,  faith  and  laws. 

'Tis  ripeness,  'tis  fame's  zenith  that  kills  hope. 

Huge  oaks  are  dying,  forests  yet  to  come 

Lie  in  the  twigs  and  rotten-seeming  seeds. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  179 

FEDALMA. 

And  our  wild  Zincali?     'Neath  their  rough  husk 
Can  you  discern  such  seed?     You  said  our  band 
Was  the  best  arm  of  some  hard  enterprise ; 
They  give  out  sparks  of  virtue,  then,  and  show 
There's  metal  in  their  earth? 

ZABCA. 

Ay,  metal  fine 

In  my  brave  Gypsies.     Not  the  lithest  Moor 
Has  lither  limbs  for  scaling,  keener  eye 
To  mark  the  meaning  of  the  furthest  speck 
That  tells  of  change ;  and  they  are  disciplined 
By  faith  in  me,  to  such  obedience 
As  needs  no  spy.     My  sealers  and  my  scouts 
Are  to  the  Moorish  force  they're  leagued  withal 
As  bow-string  to  the  bow ;  while  I  their  chief 
Command  the  enterprise  and  guide  the  will 
Of  Moorish  captains,  as  the  pilot  guides 
With  eye-instructed  hand  the  passive  helm. 
For  high  device  is  still  the  highest  force, 
And  he  who  holds  the  secret  of  the  wheel 
May  make  the  rivers  do  what  work  he  would. 
With  thoughts  impalpable  we  clutch  men's  souls, 
Weaken  the  joints  of  armies,  make  them  fly 
Like  dust  and  leaves  before  the  viewless  wind. 
Tell  me  what's  mirrored  in  the  tiger's  heart, 
I'll  rule  that  too. 

FEDALMA  (wrought  to  a  glow  of  admiration). 

0  my  imperial  father! 

'Tis  where  there  breathes  a  mighty  soul  like  yours 
That  men's  contempt  is  of  good  augury. 

ZARCA   (seiziny  both    FED  ALMA'S  hands,    and  looking  at  her 
searchingly} . 

And  you,  my  daughter,  what  are  you — if  not 
The  Zincalo's  child?     Say,  does  not  his  great  hope 


180  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Thrill  in  your  veins  like  shouts  of  victory? 

'Tis  a  vile  life  that  like  a  garden  pool 

Lies  stagnant  in  the  round  of  personal  loves; 

That  has  no  ear  save  for  the  tickling  lute 

Set  to  small  measures — deaf  to  all  the  beats 

Of  that  large  music  rolling  o'  er  the  world : 

A  miserable,  petty,  low-roofed  life, 

That  knows  the  mighty  orbits  of  the  skies 

Through  nought  save  light  or  dark  in  its  own  cabin. 

The  very  brutes  will  feel  the  force  of  kind 

And  move  together,  gathering  a  new  soul — 

The  soul  of  multitudes.      Say  now,  my  child, 

You  will  not  falter,  not  look  back  and  long 

For  unfledged  ease  in  some  soft  alien  nest. 

The  crane  with  outspread  wing  that  heads  the  file 

Pauses  not,  feels  no  backward  impulses : 

Behind  it  summer  was,  and  is  no  more; 

Before  it  lies  the  summer  it  will  reach 

Or  perish  in  mid-ocean.     You  no  less 

Must  feel  the  force  sublime  of  growing  life. 

New  thoughts  are  urgent  as  the  growth  of  wings ; 

The  widening  vision  is  imperious 

As  higher  members  bursting  the  worm's  sheath. 

You  cannot  grovel  in  the  worm's  delights: 

You  must  take  winged  pleasures,  winged  pains. 

Are  you  not  steadfast?     Will  you  live  or  die 

For  aught  below  your  royal  heritage? 

To  him  who  holds  the  flickering  brief  torch 

That  lights  a  beacon  for  the  perishing, 

Aught  else  is  crime.     Would  you  let  drop  the  torch? 

FED  ALMA. 

Father,  my  soul  is  weak,  the  mist  of  tears 

Still  rises  to  my  eyes,  and  hides  the  goal 

Which  to  your  undimined  "sight  is  fixed  and  clear. 

But  if  I  cannot  plant  resolve  on  hope, 

It  will  stand  firm  on  certainty  of  woe. 

I  choose  the  ill  that  is  most  like  to  end 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  181 

With  my  poor  being.     Hopes  have  precarious  life. 
They  are  oft  blighted,  withered,  snapped  sheer  off 
In  vigorous  growth  and  turned  to  rottenness. 
But  faithfulness  can  feed  on  suffering, 
And  knows  no  disappointment.     Trust  in  me! 
If  it  were  needed,  this  poor  trembling  hand 
Should  grasp  the  torch — strive  not  to  let  it  fall 
Though  it  were  burning  down  close  to  my  flesh, 
No  beacon  lighted  yet :  through  the  damp  dark 
I  should  still  hear  the  cry  of  gasping  swimmers. 
Father,  I  will  be  true! 

ZARCA. 

I  trust  that  word. 

And,  for  your  sadness — you  are  young — the  bruise 
Will  leave  no  mark.     The  worst  of  misery 
Is  when  a  nature  framed  for  noblest  things 
Condemns  itself  in  youth  to  petty  joys, 
And,  sore  athirst  for  air,  breathes  scanty  life 
Gasping  from  out  the  shallows.     You  are  saved 
From  such  poor  doubleness.     The  life  we  choose 
Breathes  high,  and  sees  a  full-arched  firmament. 
Our  deeds  shall  speak  like  rock-hewn  messages, 
Teaching  great  purpose  to  the  distant  time. 
Now  I  must  hasten  back.     I  shall  but  speak 
To  Nadar  of  the  order  he  must  keep 
In  setting  watch  and  victualling.     The  stars 
And  the  young  moon  must  see  me  at  my  post. 
Nay,  rest  you  here.     Farewell,  my  younger  self — • 
Strong-hearted  daughter !     Shall  I  live  in  you 
When  the  earth  covers  me? 

FED ALMA. 

My  father,  death 

Should  give  your  will  divineness,  make  it  strong 
With  the  beseechings  of  a  mighty  soul 
That  left  its  work  unfinished.     Kiss  me  now 
(They  embrace,  and  she  adds  tremulously  as 
they  part, ) 


182  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

And  when  you  see  fair  hair,  be  pitiful. 

[Exit  ZABCA. 

(FEDALMA  seats  herself  on  the  bank,  leans  her  head 
forward,  and  covers  her  face  with  her  drapery. 
While  she  is  seated  thus,  HINDA  comes  from  the 
bank,  with  a  branch  of  musk  roses  in  her  hand. 
Seeing  FEDALMA  with  head  bent  and  covered,  she 
pauses,  and  begins  to  move  on  tiptoe.} 

HINDA. 

Our  Queen!     Can  she  be  crying?     There  she  sits 
As  I  did  every  day  when  my  dog  Saad 
Sickened  and  yelled,  and  seemed  to  yell  so  loud 
After  we  buried  him,  I  oped  his  grave. 

(She  comes  forward  on  tiptoe,  kneels  at  FEDALMA'S 
feet,  and  embraces  them.  FEDALMA  uncovers 
her  head.) 

FEDALMA. 
Hinda!  what  is  it? 

HINDA. 

Queen,  a  branch  of  roses 

So  sweet  you'll  love  to  smell  them.     'Twas  the  last. 
I  climbed  the  bank  to  get  it  before  Tralla, 
And  slipped  and  scratched  my  arm.     But  1  don't  mind. 
You  love  the  roses — so  do  I.     I  wish 
The  sky  would  rain  down  roses,  as  they  rain 
From  off  the  shaken  bush.     Why  will  it  not? 
Then  all  the  valley  would  be  pink  and  white 
And  soft  to  tread  on.     They  would  fall  as  light 
As  feathers,  smelling  sweet ;  and  it  would  be 
Like  sleeping  and  yet  waking,  all  at  once! 
Over  the  sea,  Queen,  where  we  soon  shall  go, 
Will  it  rain  roses? 

FEDALMA. 

No,  my  prattler,  no! 
It  never  will  rain  roses :  when  we  want 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  183 

To  have  more  roses  we  must  plant  more  trees. 
But  you  want  nothing,  little  one — the  world 
Just  suits  you  as  it  suits  the  tawny  squirrels. 
Come,  you  want  nothing. 

HINDA. 

Yes,  I  want  more  berries — 
Bed  ones — to  wind  about  my  neck  and  arms 
When  I  am  married — on  my  ankles  too 
I  want  to  wind  red  berries,  and  on  my  head. 

FEDALMA. 
Who  is  it  you  are  fond  of?     Tell  me,  now. 

HINDA. 

0  Queen,  you  know!     It  could  be  no  one  else 
But  Ismael.     He  catches  all  the  birds, 

Knows  where  the  speckled  fish  are,  scales  the  rocks, 
And  sings  and  dances  with  me  when  I  like. 
How  should  I  marry  and  not  marry  him? 

FEDALMA. 

Should  you  have  loved  him,  had  he  been  a  Moor, 
Or  white  Castilian? 

HINDA  (starting  to  her  feet,  then  kneeling  again). 

Are  you  angry,  Queen? 

Say  why  you  will  think  shame  of  your  poor  Hinda? 
She'd  sooner  be  a  rat  and  hang  on  thorns 
To  parch  until  the  wind  had  scattered  her, 
Than  be  an  outcast,  spit  at  by  her  tribe. 

FEDALMA. 

1  think  no  evil — am  not  angry,  child. 

But  would  you  part  from  Ismael?  leave  him  now 
If  your  chief  bade  you — said  it  was  for  good 
To  all  your  tribe  that  you  must  part  from  him? 


184  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

HINDA  (giving  a  sharp  cry}. 
Ah,  will  he  say  so? 

FED  ALMA  (almost  fierce  in  her  earnestness}. 

Nay,  child,  answer  me. 
Could  yon  leave  Ismael?  get  into  a  boat 
And  see  the  waters  widen  'twixt  you  two 
Till  all  was  water  and  you  saw  him  not, 
And  knew  that  you  would  never  see  him  more? 
If  'twas  your  chief's  command,  and  if  he  said 
Your  tribe  would  all  be  slaughtered,  die  of  plague, 
Of  famine — madly  drink  each  other's  blood  .  .  . 

HINDA  (trembling). 

0  Queen,  if  it  is  so,  tell  Ismael. 

FED  ALMA. 
You  would  obey,  then?  part  from  him  for  ever? 

HINDA. 

How  could  we  live  else?     With  our  brethren  lost?- 
No  marriage  feast?     The  day  would  turn  to  dark. 
A  Zincala  cannot  live  without  her  tribe. 

1  must  obey!     Poor  Ismael — poor  Hinda! 
But  will  it  ever  be  so  cold  and  dark? 
Oh,  I  would  sit  upon  the  rocks  and  cry, 
And  cry  so  long  that  I  could  cry  no  more: 
Then  I  should  go  to  sleep. 

FED  ALMA. 

No,  Hinda,  no! 

Thou  never  shalt  be  called  to  part  from  him. 
I  will  have  berries  for  thee,  red  and  black, 
And  I  will  be  so  glad  to  see  thee  glad, 
That  earth  will  seem  to  hold  enough  of  joy 
To  outweigh  all  the  pangs  of  those  who  part. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  185 

Be  comforted,  bright  eyes.     See,  I  will  tie 
These  roses  in  a  crown,  for  thee  to  wear. 


HINDA  (clapping  her  hands,  while  FEDALMA  puts  the  roses  on 

her  head). 

Oh,  I'm  as  glad  as  many  little  foxes — 
I  will  find  Ismael,  and  tell  him  all. 

(She  runs  off.) 

FEDALMA  (alone). 

She  has  the  strength  I  lack.     Within  her  world 

The  dial  has  not  stirred  since  first  she  woke : 

No  changing  light  has  made  the  shadows  die, 

And  taught  her  trusting  soul  sad  difference. 

For  her,  good,  right,  and  law  are  all  summed  up 

In  what  is  possible :  life  is  one  web 

Where  love,  joy,  kindred,  and  obedience 

Lie  fast  and  even,  in  one  warp  and  woof 

With  thirst  and  drinking,  hunger,  food,  and  sleep. 

She  knows  no  struggles,  sees  no  double  path : 

Her  fate  is  freedom,  for  her  will  is  one 

With  her  own  people's  law,  the  only  law 

She  ever  knew.     For  me — I  have  fire  within, 

But  on  my  will  there  falls  the  chilling  snow 

Of  thoughts  that  come  as  subtly  as  soft  flakes, 

Yet,  press  at  last  with  hard  and  icy  weight. 

I  could  be  firm,  could  give  myself  the  wrench 

And  walk  erect,  hiding  my  life-long  wound, 

If  I  but  saw  the  fruit  of  all  my  pain 

With  that  strong  vision  which  commands  the  soul, 

And  makes  great  awe  the  monarch  of  desire. 

But  now  I  totter,  seeing  no  far  goal : 

I  tread  the  rocky  pass,  and  pause  and  grasp, 

Guided  by  flashes.     When  my  father  comes, 

And  breathes  into  my  soul  his  generous  hope — 

By  his  own  greatness  making  life  seem  great, 

As  the  clear  heavens  bring  sublimity, 

And  show  earth  larger,  spanned  by  that  blue  vast — 


186  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Resolve  is  strong:  I  can  embrace  my  sorrow, 

Nor  nicely  weigh  the  fruit ;  possessed  with  need 

Solely  to  do  the  noblest,  though  it  failed— 

Though  lava  streamed  upon  my  breathing  deed 

And  buried  it  in  night  and  barrenness. 

But  soon  the  glow  dies  out,  the  trumpet  strain 

That  vibrated  as  strength  through  all  my  limbs 

Is  heard  no  longer;  over  the  wide  scene 

There's  nought  but  chill  gray  silence,  or  the  hum 

And  fitful  discord  of  a  vulgar  world. 

Then  I  sink  helpless — sink  into  the  arms 

Of  all  sweet  memories,  and  dream  of  bliss : 

See  looks  that  penetrate  like  tones ;  hear  tones 

That  flash  looks  with  them.     Even  now  I  feel 

Soft  airs  enwrap  me,  as  if  yearning  rays 

Of  some  far  presence  touched  me  with  their  warmth 

And  brought  a  tender  murmuring  .   .   . 

[While  she  mused, 

A  figure  came  from  out  the  olive  trees 
That  bent  close-whispering  'twixt  the  parted  hills 
Beyond  the  crescent  of  thick  cactus :  paused 
At  sight  of  her ;  then  slowly  forward  moved 
With  careful  steps,  and  gently  said,  "  FEDALMA  !  " 
Fearing  lest  fancy  had  enslaved  her  sense, 
She  quivered,  rose,  but  turned  not.     Soon  again : 
"  FEDALMA,  it  is  SILVA  !  "     Then  she  turned. 
He,  with  bared  head  and  arms  entreating,  beamed 
Like  morning  on  her.     Vision  held  her  still 
One  moment,  then  with  gliding  motion  swift, 
Inevitable  as  the  melting  stream's, 
She  found  her  rest  within  his  circling  arms.] 

FEDALMA. 
O  love,  you  are  living,  and  believe  in  me!j 

DON    SILVA. 

Once  more  we  are  together.     Wishing  dies — 
Stifled  with  bliss. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  187 


FEDALMA. 

You  did  not  hate  me,  then — 
Think  me  an  ingrate — think  my  love  was  small 
That  I  forsook  you? 

DON  SILVA. 

Dear,  I  trusted  you 

As  holy  men  trust  God.     You  could  do  nought 
That  was  not  pure  and  loving — though  the  deed 
Might  pierce  me  unto  death.     You  had  less  trust, 
Since  you  suspected  mine.     'Twas  wicked  doubt. 

FEDALMA. 

Nay,  when  I  saw  you  hating  me,  the  fault 
Seemed  in  my  lot — my  bitter  birthright — hers 
On  whom  you  lavished  all  your  wealth  of  love 
As  price  of  nought  but  sorrow.     Then  I  said, 
"  'Tis  better  so.     He  will  be  happier!  " 
But  soon  that  thought,  struggling  to  be  a  hope, 
Would  end  in  tears. 

DON  SILVA. 

It  was  a  cruel  thought. 
Happier !     True  misery  is  not  begun 
Until  I  cease  to  love  thee. 

FEDALMA. 

Silva! 

DON  SILVA. 

Mine! 
(They  stand  a  moment  or  two  in  silence.) 

FEDALMA. 

» 

I  thought  I  had  so  much  to  tell  you,  love — 
Long  eloquent  stories — how  it  all  befell — 


188  POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

The  solemn  message,  calling  me  away 

To  awful  spousals,  where  my  own  dead  joy, 

A  conscious  ghost,  looked  on  and  saw  me  wed. 

DON  SILVA. 

Oh,  that  grave  speech  would  cumber  our  quick  souls 
Like  bells  that  waste  the  moments  with  their  loudness. 

FED  ALMA. 

And  if  it  all  were  said,  'twould  end  in  this, 
That  I  still  loved  you  when  I  fled  away. 
'Tis  no  more  wisdom  than  the  little  birds 
Make  known  by  their  soft  twitter  when  they  feel 
Each  other's  heart  beat. 

DON  SILVA. 

All  the  deepest  things 

We  now  say  with  our  eyes  and  meeting  pulse: 
Our  voices  need  but  prattle. 

FEDA^MA. 

I  forget 
All  the  drear  days  of  thirst  in  this  one  draught. 

(Again  they  are  silent  for  a  few  moments,") 
But  tell  me  how  you  came?     Where  are  your  guards? 
Is  there  no  risk?     And  now  I  look  at  you, 
This  garb  is  strange  .... 

DON  SILVA. 
I  came  alone. 

FED  ALMA. 

Alone? 
SILVA. 


Yes  —  fled  in  secret.     There  was  no  way  else 
To  find  you  safely. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  189 

FED  ALMA  (letting  one  hand  fall  and  moving  a  little  from 
him  with  a  look  of  sudden  terror,  while  he  clasps 
her  more  firmly  by  the  other  arm). 

Silva! 

DON  SILVA. 

It  is  nought. 

Enough  that  I  am  here.     Now  we  will  cling. 
What  power  shall  hinder  us?     You  left  me  once 
To  set  your  father  free.     That  task  is  done, 
And  you  are  mine  again.     I  have  braved  all 
That  I  might  find  you,  see  your  father,  win 
His  furtherance  in  bearing  you  away 
To  some  safe  refuge.     Are  we  not  betrothed? 

FEDALMA. 

Oh,  I  am  trembling  'neath  the  rush  of  thoughts 
That  come  like  griefs  at  morning — look  at  me 
With  awful  faces,  from  the  vanishing  haze 
That  momently  had  hidden  them. 

DON  SILVA. 

What  thoughts? 
FEDALMA. 

Forgotten  burials.     There  lies  a  grave 
Between  this  visionary  present  and  the  past. 
Our  joy  is  dead,  and  only  smiles  on  us 
A  loving  shade  from  out  the  place  of  tombs. 

DON  SILVA. 

Your  love  is  faint,  else  aught  that  parted  us 
Would  seem  but  superstition.     Love  supreme 
Defies  dream-terrors — risks  avenging  fires. 
I  have  risked  all  things.     But  your  love  is  faint. 


190  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


FED  ALMA  (retreating  a  little,  but  keeping  his  hand). 

Silva,  if  now  between  us  came  a  sword, 
Severed  my  arm,  and  left  our  two  hands  clasped, 
This  poor  maimed  arm  would  feel  the  clasp  till  death. 
What  parts  us  is  a  sword  .... 

(ZARCA  has  been  advancing  in  the  background.  He 
has  drawn  his  sword,  and  now  thrusts  the  naked 
blade  between  them.  Dox  SILVA  lets  go  FEDAL- 
MA'S  hand,  and  grasps  his  sword.  FED  ALMA, 
startled  at  first,  stands  firmly,  as  if  prepared  to 
interpose  between  her  father  and  the  Duke.) 


ZARCA. 

Ay,  'tis  a  sword 

That  parts  the  Spaniard  and  the  Zincala  : 
A  sword  that  was  baptized  in  Christian  blood, 
When  once  a  band,  cloaking  with  Spanish  law 
Their  brutal  rapine,  would  have  butchered  us, 
And  outraged  then  our  women. 

(Resting  the  point  of  his  sword  on  the  ground.) 

My  lord  Duke, 

I  was  a  guest  within  your  fortress  once 
Against  my  will ;  had  entertainment  too — 
Much  like  a  galley-slave's.     Pray,  have  you  sought 
The  Zincalo's  camp,  to  find  a  fit  return 
For  that  Castilian  courtesy?  or  rather 
To  make  amends  for  all  our  prisoned  toil 
By  free  bestowal  of  your  presence  here? 

DON  SILVA. 

Chief,  I  have  brought  no  scorn  to  meet  your  scorn. 
I  came  because  love  urged  me — that  deep  love 
I  bear  to  her  whom  you  call  daughter — her 
Whom  I  reclaim  as  my  betrothed  bride. 


1  Ay,  'tis  a  sword 
Tbat  parts  the  Spaniard  and  the  Zincala."— Page  190. 

Eliot— Spanish  Gypsy. 


THE  SPANISH   GYPSY. 

ZARCA. 

Doubtless  you  bring  for  final  argument 

Your  men-at-arms  who  will  escort  your  bride? 

Dox  SILVA. 

I  came  alone.     The  only  force  I  bring 
Is  tenderness.     Nay,  I  will  trust  besides 
In  all  the  pleadings  of  a  father's  care 
To  wed  his  daughter  as  her  nurture  bids. 
And  for  your  tribe — whatever  purposed  good 
Your  thoughts  may  cherish,  I  will  make  secure 
With  the  strong  surety  of  a  noble's  power : 
My  wealth  shall  be  your  treasury. 

ZARCA    (with  irony). 

My  thanks ! 

To  me  you  offer  liberal  price ;  for  her 
Your  love's  beseeching  will  be  force  supreme. 
She  will  go  with  you  as  a  willing  slave, 
Will  give  a  word  of  parting  to  her  father, 
Wave  farewells  to  her  tribe,  then  turn  and  say, 
"  Now,  my  lord,  I  am  nothing  but  your  bride ; 
I  am  quite  culled,  have  neither  root  nor  trunk, 
Now  wear  me  with  your  plume !  " 

DON  SILVA. 

Yours  is  the  wrong 

Feigning  in  me  one  thought  of  her  below 
The  highest  homage.     I  would  make  my  rank 
The  pedestal  of  her  worth ;  a  noble' s  sw.ord, 
A  noble's  honor,  her  defence;  his  love 
The  life-long  sanctuary  of  her  womanhood. 

ZARCA. 

I  tell  you,  were  you  King  of  Aragon, 

And  won  my  daughter's  hand,  your  higher  rank 


192  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Would  blacken  her  dishonor.     'Twere  excuse 

If  you  were  beggared,  homeless,  spit  upon, 

And  so  made  even  with  her  people's  lot; 

For  then  she  would  be  lured  by  want,  not  wealth, 

To  be  a  wife  amongst  an  alien  race 

To  whom  her  tribe  owes  curses. 

DON  SILVA. 

Such  blind  hate 

Is  fit  for  beasts  of  prey,  but  not  for  men. 
My  hostile  acts  against  you,  should  but  count 
As  ignorant  strokes  against  a  friend  unknown ; 
And  for  the  wrongs  inflicted  on  your  tribe 
By  Spanish  edicts  or  the  cruelty 
Of  Spanish  vassals,    am  I  criminal? 
Love  comes  to  cancel  all  ancestral  hate, 
Subdues  all  heritage,  proves  that  in  mankind 
Union  is  deeper  than  division. 

ZAECA. 

Ay, 

Such  love  is  common :  I  have  seen  it  oft — 
Seen  many  women  rend  the  sacred  ties 
That  bind  them  in  high  fellowship  with  men, 
Making  them  mothers  of  a  people's  virtue: 
Seen  them  so  levelled  to  a  handsome  steed 
That  yesterday  was  Moorish  property, 
To-day  is  Christian — wears  new-fashioned  gear, 
Neighs  to  new  feeders,  and  will  prance  alike 
Under  all  banners,  so  the  banner  be 
A  master's  who  caresses.     Such  light  change 
You  call  conversion ;  but  we  Zincali  call 
Conversion  infamy.      Our  people's  faith 
Is  faithfulness ;  not  the  rote-learned  belief 
That  we  are  heaven's  highest  favorites, 
But  the  resolve  that  being  most  forsaken 
Among  the  sons  of  men,  we  will  be  true 
Each  to  the  other,  and  our  common  lot. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  193 

You  Christians  burn  men  for  their  heresy : 
Our  vilest  heretic  is  that  Zincala 
Who,  choosing  ease,  forsakes  her  people's  woes. 
The  dowry  of  my  daughter  is  to  be 
Chief  woman  of  her  tribe,  and  rescue  it. 
A  bride  with  such  a  dowry  has  no  match 
Among  the  subjects  of  that  Catholic  Queen 
Who  would  have  Gypsies  swept  into  the  sea 
Or  else  would  have  them  gibbeted. 

DON  SII/VA. 

And  you, 

Fedalma's  father — you  who  claim  the  dues 

Of  fatherhood — will  offer  up  her  youth 

To  mere  grim  idols  of  your  phantasy ! 

Worse  than  all  Pagans,  with  no  oracle 

To  bid  you  murder,  no  sure  good  to  win, 

Will  sacrifice  your  daughter— to  no  god, 

But  to  a  ravenous  fire  within  your  soul, 

Mad  hopes,  blind  hate,  that  like  possessing  fiends 

Shriek  at  a  name !     This  sweetest  virgin,  reared 

As  garden  flowers,  to  give  the  sordid  world 

Glimpses  of  perfectness,  you  snatch  and  thrust 

On  dreary  wilds;  in  visions  mad,  proclaim 

Semiramis  of  Gypsy  wanderers; 

Doom,  with  a  broken  arrow  in  her  heart, 

To  wait  for  death  '  mid  squalid  savages : 

For  what?     You  would  be  saviour  of  your  tribe; 

So  said  Fedalma's  letter;  rather  say, 

You  have  the  will  to  save  by  ruling  men, 

But  first  to  rule ;  and  with  that  flinty  will 

You  cut  your  way,  though  the  first  cut  you  give 

Gash  your  child's  bosom. 

(While  DON"  SILVA  has  been  speaking,  with  grow- 
ing passion,  FED  ALMA  has  placed  herself  be- 
tween  him  and  her  father.) 


194  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


ZARCA  (with  calm  irony). 

You  are  loud,  my  lord; 
You  only  are  the  reasonable  man ; 
You  have  a  heart,  I  none.     Fedalma's  good 
Is  what  you  see,  you  care  for ;  while  I  seek 
No  good,  not  even  my  own,  urged  on  by  nought 
But  hellish  hunger,  which  must  still  be  fed 
Though  in  the  feeding  it  I  suffer  throes. 
Fume  at  your  own  opinion  as  you  will : 
I  speak  not  now  to  you,  but  to  my  daughter. 
If  she  still  calls  it  good  to  mate  with  you, 
To  be  a  Spanish  duchess,  kneel  at  court, 
And  hope  her  beauty  is  excuse  to  men 
When  women  whisper,  "A  mere  Zincala!  " 
If  she  still  calls  it  good  to  take  a  lot 
That  measures  joy  for  her  as  she  forgets 
Her  kindred  and  her  kindred's  misery, 
Nor  feels  the  softness  of  her  downy  couch 
Marred  by  remembrance  that  she  once  forsook 
'The  place  that  she  was  born  to — let  her  go ! 
If  life  for  her  still  lies  in  alien  love, 
'That  forces  her  to  shut  her  soul  from  truth 
As  men  in  shameful  pleasures  shut  out  day ; 
And  death,  for  her,  is  to  do  rarest  deeds, 
Which,  even  failing,  leave  new  faith  to  men, 
The  faith  in  human  hearts — then,  let  her  go! 
She  is  my  only  offspring;  in  her  veins 
She  bears  the  blood  her  tribe  has  trusted  in ; 
Her  heritage  is  their  obedience, 
And  if  I  died,  she  might  still  lead  them  forth 
To  plant  the  race  her  lover  now  reviles 
Where  they  may  make  a  nation,  and  may  rise 
To  grander  manhood  than  his  race  can  show; 
Then  live  a  goddess,  sanctifying  oaths, 
Enforcing  right,  and  ruling  consciences, 
By  law  deep-graven  in  exalting  deeds, 
Through  the  long  ages  of  her  people's  life. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  195 

If  she  can  leave  that  lot  for  silken  shame, 

For  kisses  honeyed  by  oblivion — 

The  bliss  of  drunkards  or  the  blank  of  fools 

Then  let  her  go!     You  Spanish  Catholics, 

When  you  are  cruel,  base,  and  treacherous, 

For  ends  not  pious,  tender  gifts  to  God, 

And  for  men's  wounds  offer  much  oil  to  churches : 

We  have  no  altars  for  such  healing  gifts 

As  soothe  the  heavens  for  outrage  done  on  earth. 

We  have  no  priesthood  and  no  creed  to  teach 

That  she — the  Zincala — who  might  save  her  race 

And  yet  abandons  it,  may  cleanse  that  blot, 

And  mend  the  curse  her  life  has  been  to  men, 

By  saving  her  own  soul.     Her  one  base  choice 

Is  wrong  unchangeable,  is  poison  shed 

Where  men  must  drink,  shed  by  her  poisoning  will. 

Now  choose,  Fedalma! 

[But  her  choice  was  made. 
Slowly,  while  yet  her  father  spoke,  she  moved 
From  where  oblique  with  deprecating  arms 
She  stood  between  the  two  who  swayed  her  heart : 
Slowly  she  moved  to  choose  sublimer  pain ; 
Yearning,  yet  shrinking;  wrought  upon  by  awe, 
Her  own  brief  life  seeming  a  little  isle 
Eemote  through  visions  of  a  wider  world 
With  fates  close-crowded;  firm  to  slay  her  joy 
That  cut  her  heart  with  smiles  beneath  t£e  knife, 
Like  a  sweet  babe  foredoomed  by  prophecy. 
She  stood  apart,  yet  near  her  father :  stood 
Hand  clutching  hand,  her  limbs  all  tense  with  will 
That  strove  'gainst  anguish,  eyes  that  seemed  a  soul 
Yearning  in  death  toward  him  she  loved  and  left. 
He  faced  her,  pale  with  passion  and  a  will 
Fierce  to  resist  whatever  might  seem  strong 
And  ask  him  to  submit-  he  saw  one  end — 
He  must  be  conqueror ;  monarch  of  his  lot 
And  not  its  tributary.     But  she  spoke 
Tenderly,  pleadingly.] 


196  POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


FEDALMA. 

My  lord,  farewell! 

*Twas  well  we  met  once  more ;  now  we  must  part. 
I  think  we  had  the  chief  of  all  love's  joys 
Only  in  knowing  that  we  loved  each  other. 

DON  Sii/vA. 

I  thought  wa  loved  with  love  that  clings  till  death, 
Clings  as  brute  mothers  bleeding  to  their  young, 
Still  sheltering,  clutching  it,  though  it  were  dead ; 
Taking  the  death-wound  sooner  than  divide.  . 
I  thought  ^we  loved  so. 

FEDALMA. 

Silva,  it  is  fate. 

Great  Fate  has  made  me  heiress  of  this  woe. 
You  must  forgive  Fedalma  all  her  debt : 
She  is  quite  beggared :  if  she  gave  herself, 
'Twould  be  a  self  corrupt  with  stifled  thoughts 
Of  a  forsaken  better.     It  is  truth 
My  father  speaks :  the  Spanish  noble's  wife 
Were  a  false  Zincala.     No!  I  will  bear 
The  heavy  trust  of  my  inheritance. 
See,  'twas  my  people's  life  that  throbbed  in  me : 
An  unknown  need  stirred  darkly  in  my  soul, 
And  made  me  restless  even  in  my  bliss. 
Oh,  all  my  bliss  was  in  our  love ;  but  now 
I  may  not  taste  it :  some  deep  energy 
Compels  me  to  choose  hunger.     Dear,  farewell! 
I  must  go  with  my  people. 

[She  stretched  forth 

Her  tender  hands,  that  oft  had  lain  in  his, 
The  hands  he  knew  so  well,  that  sight  of  them 
Seemed  like  their  touch.     But  he  stood  still  as  death; 
Locked  motionless  by  forces  opposite : 
His  frustrate  hopes  still  battled  with  despair; 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  197 

His  will  was  prisoner  to  the  double  grasp 

Of  rage  and  hesitancy.     All  the  way 

Behind  him  he  had  trodden  confident, 

Ruling  munificently  in  his  thought 

This  Gypsy  father.     Now  the  father  stood 

Present  and  silent  and  unchangeable 

As  a  celestial  portent.     Backward  lay 

The  traversed  road,  the  town's  forsaken  wall, 

The  risk,  the  daring;  all  around  him  now 

Was  obstacle,  save  where  the  rising  flood 

Of  love  close  pressed  by  anguish  of  denial 

Was  sweeping  him  resistless;  save  where  she 

Gazing  stretched  forth  her  tender  hands,  that  hurt 

Like  parting  kisses.     Then  at  last  he  spoke.] 

DON  SILVA. 

No,  I  can  never  take  those  hands  in  mine 
Then  let  them  go  for  ever! 

FED  ALMA. 

It  must  be. 

We  may  not  make  this  world  a  paradise 
By  walking  it  together  hand  in  hand, 
With  eyes  that  meeting  feed  a  double  strength. 
We  must  be  only  joined  by  pains  divine 
Of  spirits  blent  in  mutual  memories. 
Silva,  our  joy  is  dead. 

DON  SILVA. 

But  love  still  lives, 

And  has  a  safer  guard  in  wretchedness. 
Fedalma,  women  know  no  perfect  love : 
Loving  the  strong,  they  can  forsake  the  strong; 
Man  clings  because  the  being  whom  he  loves 
Is  weak  and  needs  him.     I  can  never  turn 
And  leave  you  to  your  difficult  wandering; 
Know  that  you  tread  the  desert,  bear  the  storm, 
Shed  tears,  see  terrors,  faint  with  weariness, 


198  POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Yet  live  away  from  you.     I  should  feel  nought 
But  your  imagined  pains :  in  my  own  steps 
See  your  feet  bleeding,  taste  your  silent  tears, 
And  feel  no  presence  but  your  loneliness. 
No,  I  will  never  leave  you ! 

ZARCA. 

My  lord  Duke, 

I  have  been  patient,  given  room  for  speech, 
Bent  not  to  move  my  daughter  by  command, 
Save  that  of  her  own  faithfulness.     But  now, 
All  further  words  are  idle  elegies 
Unfitting  times  of  action.     You  are  here 
With  the  safe-conduct  of  that  trust  you  showed 
Coming  unguarded  to  the  Gypsy's  camp. 
I  would  fain  meet  all  trust  with  courtesy 
As  well  as  honor;  but  my  utmost  power 
Is  to  afford  you  Gypsy  guard  to-night 
Within  the  tents  that  keep  the  northward  lines, 
And  for  the  morrow,  escort  on  your  way 
Back  to  the  Moorish  bounds. 

DON  SILVA. 

What  if  my  words 

Were  meant  for  deeds,  decisive  as  a  leap 
Into  the  current?     It  is  not  my  wont 
To  utter  hollow  words,  and  speak  resolves 
Like  verses  bandied  in  a  madrigal. 
I  spoke  in  action  first :  I  faced  all  risks 
To  find  Fedalma.     Action  speaks  again 
When  I,  a  Spanish  noble,  here  declare 
That  I  abide  with  her,  adopt  her  lot, 
Claiming  alone  fulfilment  of  her  vows 
As  my  bethrothed  wife. 

FEDALMA  (wresting  herself  from  him,  and  standing 
opposite  tvith  a  look  of  terror). 

Nay,  Silva,  nay!. 
You  could  not  live  so — spring  from  your  high  place 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  199 


DON-  SILVA. 

Yes,  I  have  said  it.     And  you,  chief,  are  bound 
By  her  strict  vows,  no  stronger  fealty 
Being  left  to  cancel  them. 

ZAROA. 

Strong  words,  my  lord! 

Sounds  fatal  as  the  hammer-strokes  that  shape 
The  glowing  metal :  they  must  shape  your  life. 
That  you  will  claim  my  daughter  is  to  say 
That  you  will  leave  your  Spanish  dignities, 
Your  home,  your  wealth,  your  people,  to  become 
Wholly  a  Zincalo :  share  our  wanderings, 
And  be  a  match  meet  for  my  daughter's  dower 
By  living  for  her  tribe;  take  the  deep  oath 
That  binds  you  to  us ;  rest  within  our  camp, 
Nevermore  hold  command  of  Spanish  men, 
And  keep  my  orders.     See,  my  lord,  you  lock 
A  many-winding  chain — a  heavy  chain. 

Dox  SILVA. 

I  have  but  one  resolve :  let  the  rest  follow. 

What  is  my  rank?     To-morrow  it  will  be  filled 

By  one  who  eyes  it  like  a  carrion  bird, 

Waiting  for  death.     I  shall  be  no  more  missed 

Than  waves  are  missed  that  leaping  on  the  rock 

Find  there  a  bed  and  rest.     Life's  a  vast  sea 

That  does  its  mighty  errand  without  fail, 

Panting  in  unchanged  strength  though  waves  are  changing. 

And  I  have  said  it :  she  shall  be  my  people, 

And  where  she  gives  her  life  I  will  give  mine. 

She  shall  not  live  alone,  nor  die  alone. 

I  \vill  elect  my  deeds,  and  be  the  liege 

Not  of  my  birth,  but  of  that  good  alone 

I  have  discerned  and  chosen. 


200  POEMS   OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

ZARCA. 

Our  poor  faith 

Allows  not  rightful  choice,  save  of  the  right 
Our  birth  has  made  for  us.     And  you,  my  lord, 
Can  still  defer  your  choice,  for  some  days'  space. 
I  march  perforce  to-night ;  you,  if  you  will, 
Under  a  Gypsy  guard,  can  keep  the  heights 
With  silent  Time  that  slowly  opes  the  scroll 
Of  change  inevitable — take  no  oath 
Till  my  accomplished  task  leave  me  at  large 
To  see  you  keep  your  purpose  or  renounce  it. 

DON  SILVA. 

Chief,  do  I  bear  amiss,  or  does  your  speech 
Ring  with  a  doubleness  which  I  had  held 
Most  alien  to  you?     You  would  put  me  off, 
And  cloak  evasion  with  allowance?     No! 
We  will  complete  our  pledges.     I  will  take 
That  oath  which  biuds  not  me  alone,  but  you, 
To  join  my  life  for  ever  with  Fedalma's. 

ZARCA. 

I  wrangle  not — time  presses.     But  the  oath 
Will  leave  you  that  same  post  upon  the  heights; 
Pledged  to  remain  there  while  my  absence  lasts. 
You  are  agreed,  my  lord? 

DON  SILVA. 

Agreed  to  alL 

ZABCA. 

Then  I  will  give  the  summons  to  our  oamp. 
We  will  adopt  you  as  a  brother  now, 
After  our  wanted  fashion. 

[Exit  ZARCA 
takes  FEDALMA'S  hands.) 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  201 


FED  ALMA. 

0  my  lord! 

I  think  the  earth  is  trembling :  nought  is  firm. 
Some  terror  chills  me  with  a  shadowy  grasp. 
Am  I  about  to  wake,  or  do  you  breathe 
Here  in  this  valley?     Did  the  outer  air 
Vibrate  to  fatal  words,  or  did  they  shake 
Only  my  dreaming  soul?     You — join — our  tribe? 

DON  SILVA. 

Is  then  your  love  too  faint  to  raise  belief 
Up  to  that  height? 

FED ALMA. 

Silva,  had  you  but  said 
That  you  would  die — that  were  an  easy  task 
For  you  who  oft  have  fronted  death  in  war. 
But  so  to  live  for  me — you,  used  to  rule — 
You  could  not  breathe  the  air  my  father  breathes : 
His  presence  is  subjection.     Go,  my  lord! 
Fly,  while  there  is  yet  time.     Wait  not  to  speak. 
I  will  declare  that  I  refused  your  love — 
Would  keep  no  vows  to  you  .  .  . 

DON  SILVA. 

It  is  too  late. 

You  shall  not  thrust  me  back  to  seek  a  good 
Apart  from  you.     And  what  good?     Why,  to  face 
Your  absence — all  the  want  that  drove  me  forth-^- 
To  work  the  will  of  a  more  tyrannous  friend 
Than  any  uncowled  father.     Life  at  least 
Gives  choice  of  ills ;  forces  me  to  defy, 
But  shall  not  force  me  to  a  weak  defiance. 
The  power  that  threatened  you,  to  master  me, 
That  scorches  like  a  cave-hid  dragon's  breath, 
Sure  of  its  victory  in  spite  of  hate, 
Is  what  I  last  will  bend  to — most  defy. 


202  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Your  father  has  a  chieftain's  ends,  befitting 

A  soldier's  eye  and  arm :  were  he  as  strong 

As  the  Moors'  prophet,  yet  the  prophet  too 

Had  younger  captains  of  illustrious  fame 

Among  the  infidels.     Let  him  command, 

For  when  your  father  speaks,  I  shall  hear  you. 

Life  were  no  gain  if  you  were  lost  to  me : 

I  would  go  straight  and  seek  the  Moorish  walls, 

Challenge  their  bravest,  and  embrace  swift  death. 

The  Glorious  Mother  and  her  pitying  Son 

Are  not  Inquisitors,  else  their  heaven  were  hell. 

Perhaps  they  hate  their  cruel  worshippers, 

And  let  them  feed  on  lies.     I'll  rather  trust 

They  love  you  and  have  sent  me  to  defend  you. 

FED  ALMA. 

I  made  my  creed  so,  just  to  suit  my  mood 
And  smooth  all  hardship,  till  my  father  came 
And  taught  my  soul  by  ruling  it.     Since  then 
I  cannot  weave  a  dreaming  happy  creed 
Where  our  love' s  happiness  is  not  accursed. 
My  father  shook  my  soul  awake.     And  you — 
The  bonds  Fedalma  may  not  break  for  you, 
I  cannot  joy  that  you  should  break  for  her. 

DON  SILVA. 

Oh,  Spanish  men  are  not  a  petty  band 
Where  one  deserter  makes  a  fatal  breach. 
Men,  even  nobles,  are  more  plenteous 
Than  steeds  and  armor ;  and  my  weapons  left 
Witt  find  new  hands  to  wield  them.     Arrogance 
Makes  itself  champion  of  mankind,  and  holds 
God's  purpose  maimed  for  one  hidalgo  lost. 

See  where  your  father  comes  and  brings  a  crowd 
Of  witnesses  to  hear  my  oath  of  love ; 
The  low  red  sun  glows  on  them  like  a  fire. 
This  seems  a  valley  in  some  strange  new  world, 
Where  we  have  found  each  other,  my  Fedalma. 


BOOK  IV. 

Now  twice  the  day  had  sunk  from  off  the  hills 

While  Silva  kept  his  watch  there,  with  the  band 

Of  stalwart  Gypsies.     When  the  sun  was  high 

He  slept;  then,  waking,  strained  impatient  eyes 

To  catch  the  promise  of  some  moving  form 

That  might  be  Juan — Juan  who  went  and  came 

To  soothe  two  hearts,  and  claimed  nought  for  his  own : 

Friend  more  divine  than  all  divinities, 

Quenching  his  human  thirst  in  others'  joy. 

All  through  the  lingering  nights  and  pale  chill  dawns 

Juan  had  hovered  near;  with  delicate  sense, 

As  of  some  breath  from  every  changing  mood, 

Had  spoken  or  kept  silence;  touched  his  lute 

To  hint  of  melody,  or  poured  brief  strains 

That  seemed  to  make  all  sorrows  natural, 

Hardly  worth  weeping  for,  since  life  was  short, 

And  shared  by  loving  souls.     Such  pity  welled 

Within  the  minstrel's  heart  of  light- tongued  Juan 

For  this  doomed  man,  who  with  dream-shrouded  eyes 

Had  stepped  into  a  torrent  as  a  brook, 

Thinking  to  ford  it  and  return  at  will, 

And  now  waked  helpless  in  the  eddying  flood, 

Hemmed  by  its  raging  hurry.     Once  that  thought, 

How  easy  wandering  is,  how  hard  and  strict 

The  homeward  way,  had  slipped  from  reverie 

Into  low-murmured  song; — (brief  Spanish  song 

'Scaped  him  as  sighs  escape  from  other  men). 

Push  off  the  boat, 
Quit,  quit  the  shore, 

The  stars  will  guide  us  back : — • 


204  POEMS  O^1  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

0  gathering  cloud, 
0  wide,  wide  sea, 

0  waves  that  keep  no  track  ! 

On  through  the  pines  ! 
The  pillared  woods, 

Where  silence  breathes  sweet  breath: — 
0  labyrinth, 

O  sunless  gloom, 

The  other  side  of  death  ! 

Such  plaintive  song  had  seemed  to  please  the  Duke — 

Had  seemed  to  melt  all  voices  of  reproach 

To  sympathetic  sadness ;  but  his  moods 

Had  grown  more  fitful  with  the  growing  hours, 

And  this  soft  murmur  had  the  iterant  voice 

Of  heartless  Echo,  whom  no  pain  can  move 

To  say  aught  else  than  we  have  said  to  her. 

He  spoke,  impatient :  "  Juan,  cease  thy  song. 

Our- whimpering  poesy  and  small-paced  tunes 

Have  no  more  utterance  than  the  cricket's  chirp 

For  souls  that  carry  heaven  and  hell  within." 

Then  Juan,  lightly :  "  True,  my  lord,  I  chirp 

For  lack  of  soul;  some  hungry  poets  chirp 

For  lack  of  bread.     'Twere  wiser  to  sit  down 

And  count  the  star-seed,  till  I  fell  asleep 

With  the  cheap  wine  of  pure  stupidity." 

And  Silva,  checked  by  courtesy:  "Nay,  Juan, 

Were  speech  once  good,  thy  song  were  best  of  speech, 

I  meant,  all  life  is  but  poor  mockery : 

Action,  place,  power,  the  visible  wide  world 

Are  tattered  masquerading  of  this  self, 

This  pulse  of  conscious  mystery :  all  change, 

Whether  to  high  or  low,  is  change  of  rags. 

But  for  her  love,  I  would  not  take  a  good 

Save  to  burn  out  in  battle,  in  a  flame 

Of  madness  that  would  feel  no  mangled  limbs, 

And  die  not  knowing  death,  but  passing  straight 

— Well,  well,  to  other  flames — in  purgatory." 


THE   SPANISH  GYPSY. 

Keen  Juan's  ear  caught  the  self -discontent. 

That  vibrated  beneath  the  changing  tones 

Of  life-contemning  scorn.     Gently  he  said : 

"  But  with  her  love,  ray  lord,  the  world  deserves 

A  higher  rate ;  were  it  but  masquerade, 

The  rags  were  surely  worth  the  wearing?"     "Yes. 

No  misery  shall  force  me  to  repent 

That  I  have  loved  her." 

So  with  wilful  talk, 

Fencing  the  wounded  soul  from  beating  winds 
Of  truth  that  came  unasked,  companionship 
Made  the  hours  lighter.     And  the  Gypsy  guard, 
Trusting  familiar  Juan,  were  content, 
At  friendly  hint  from  him,  to  still  their  songs 
And  busy  jargon  round  the  nightly  fires. 
Such  sounds,  the  quick-conceiving  poet  knew 
Would  strike  on  Silva's  agitated  soul 
Like  mocking  repetition  of  the  oath 
That  bound  him  in  strange  clanship  with  the  tribe 
Of  human  panthers,  flame-eyed,  lithe-limbed,  fierce, 
Unrecking  of  time-woven  subtleties 
And  high  tribunals  of  a  phantom-world. 

But  the  third  day,  though  Silva  southward  gazed 
Till  all  the  shadows  slanted  toward  him,  gazed 
Till  all  the  shadows  died,  no  Juan  came. 
Now  in  his  stead  came  loneliness,  and  Thought 
Inexorable,  fastening  with  firm  chain 
What  is  to  what  hath  been.     Now  awful  Night, 
The  prime  ancestral  mystery,  came  down 
Past  all  the  generations  of  the  stars, 
And  visited  his  soul  with  touch  more  close 
Than  when  he  kept  that  younger,  briefer  watch 
Under  the  church's  roof  beside  his  arms, 
And  won  his  knighthood. 

Well,  this  solitude, 

This  company  with  the  enduring  universe, 
Whose  mighty  silence  carrying  all  the  past 
Absorbs  our  history  as  with  a  breath, 


206  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Should  give  him  more  assurance,  make  him  strong 

In  all  contempt  of  that  poor  circumstance 

Called  human  life — customs  and  bonds  and  laws 

Wherewith  men  make  a  better  or  a  worse, 

Like  children  playing  on  a  barren  mound 

Feigning  a  thing  to  strive  for  or  avoid. 

Thus  Silva  argued  with  his  many-voiced  self, 

Whose  thwarted  needs,  like  angry  multitudes, 

Lured  from  the  home  that  nurtured  them  to  strength, 

Made  loud  insurgence.     Thus  he  called  on  Thought, 

On  dexterous  Thought,  with  its  swift  alchemy 

To  change  all  forms,  dissolve  all  prejudice 

Of  man's  long  heritage,  and  yield  him  up 

A  crude  fused  world  to  fashion  as  he  would. 

Thought  played  him  double ;  seemed  to  wear  the  yoke 

Of  sovereign  passion  in  the  noon-day  height 

Of  passion's  prevalence;  but  served  anon 

As  tribune  to  the  larger  soul  which  brought 

Loud-mingled  cries  from  every  human  need 

That  ages  had  instructed  into  life.     He  could  not  grasp 

Night's  black -blank  mystery 

And  wear  it  for  a  spiritual  garb 

Creed-proof :  he  shuddered  at  its  passionless  touch. 

On  solitary  souls,  the  universe 

Looks  down  inhospitable ;  the  human  heart 

Finds  nowhere  shelter  but  in  human  kind. 

He  yearned  toward  images  that  had  breath  in  them, 

That  sprang  warm  palpitant  with  memories 

From  streets  and  altars,  from  ancestral  homes, 

Banners  and  trophies  and  the  cherishing  rays 

Of  shame  and  honor  in  the  eyes  of  man. 

These  made  the  speech  articulate  of  his  soul, 

That  could  not  move  to  utterance  of  scorn 

Save  in  words  bred  by  fellowship ;  could  not  feel 

Resolve  of  hardest  constancy  to  love 

The  firmer  for  the  sorrows  of  the  loved, 

Save  by  concurrent  energies  high-wrought 

To  sensibilities  transcending  sense 

Through  close  community,  and  long-shared  pains 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  207 

Of  far-off  generations.     All  in  vain 

He  sought  the  outlaw's  strength,  and  made  a  right 

Contemning  that  hereditary  right 

Which  held  dim  habitations  in  his  frame, 

Mysterious  haunts  of  echoes  old  and  far, 

The  voice  divine  of  human  loyalty. 

At  home,  among  his  people,  he  had  played 

In  sceptic  ease  with  saints  and  litanies, 

And  thunders  of  the  Church  that  deadened  fell 

Through  screens  of  priests  plethoric.     Awe,  unscathed 

By  deeper  trespass,  slept  without  a  dream. 

But  for  such  trespass  as  made  outcasts,  still 

The  ancient  Furies  lived  with  faces  new  . 

And  lurked  with  lighter  slumber  than  of  old 

O'er  Catholic  Spain,  the  land  of  sacred  oaths 

That  might  be  broken. 

Now  the  former  life 

Of  close-linked  fellowship,  the  life  that  made 
His  full-formed  self,  as  the  impregnate  sap 
Of  years  successive  frames  the  full-branched  tree — 
Was  present  in  one  whole ;  and  that  great  trust 
His  deed  had  broken  turned  reproach  on  him 
Prom  faces  of  all  witnesses  who  heard 
His  uttered  pledges ;  saw  him  hold  high  place 
Centring  reliance;  use  rich  privilege 
That  bound  him  like  a  victim-nourished  god 
By  tacit  covenant  to  shield  and  bless ; 
Assume  the  Cross  and  take  his  knightly  oath 
Mature,  deliberate :  faces  human  all, 
And  some  divine  as  well  as  human :  His        , 
Who  hung  supreme,  the  suffering  Man  divine 
Above  the  altar ;  Hers,  the  Mother  pure 
Whose  glance  informed  his  masculine  tenderness 
With  deepest  reverence ;  the  Archangel  armed, 
Trampling  man's  enemy:  all  heroic  forms 
That  fill  the  world  of  faith  with  ^oices,  hearts, 
And  high  companionship,  to  Silva  now 
Made  but  one  inward  and  insistent  world 
With  faces  of  his  peers,  with  court  and  hall 


208  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

And  deference,  and  reverent  vassalage, 
And  filial  pieties — one  current  strong, 
The  warmly  mingled  life-blood  of  his  mind, 
Sustaining  him  even  when  he  idly  played 
With  rules,  beliefs,  charges,  and  ceremonies 
As  arbitrary  fooling.     Such  revenge 
Is  wrought  by  the  long  travail  of  mankind 
On  him  who  scorns  it,  and  would  shape  his  life 
Without  obedience. 

But  his  warrior's  pride 

Would  take  no  wounds  save  on  the  breast.     He  faced 
The  fatal  crowd ;  "  I  never  shall  repent ! 
If  I  have  sinned,  my  sin  was  made  for  me 
By  men's  perverseness.     There's  no  blameless  life 
Save  for  the  passionless,  no  sanctities 
But  have  the  self -same  roof  and  props  with  crime, 
Or  have  their  roots  close  interlaced  with  wrong. 
If  I  had  loved  her  less,  been  more  a  craven, 
I  had  kept  my  place  and  won  the  easy  praise 
Of  a  true  Spanish  noble.     But  I  loved, 
And,  loving,  dared — not  Death  the  warrior 
But  Infamy  that  binds  and  strips,  and  holds 
The  brand  and  lash.     I  have  dared  all  for  her. 
She  was  my  good — what  other  men  call  heaven, 
And  for  the  sake  of  it  bear  penances ; 
Nay,  some  of  old  were  baited,  tortured,  flayed 
To  win  their  heaven.     Heaven  was  their  good, 
She,  mine.     And  I  have  braved  for  her  all  fires 
Certain  or  threatened ;  for  I  go  away 
Beyond  the  reach  of  expiation — far  away 
From  sacramental  blessing.     Does  God  bless 
No  outlaw?     Shut  his  absolution  fast 
In  human  breath?     Is  there  no  God  for  me 
Save  him  whose  cross  I  have  forsaken? — Well, 
I  am  for  ever  exiled — but  with  her! 
She  is  dragged  oui  into  the  wilderness; 
I,  with  ray  love,  will  be  her  providence. 
I  have  a  right  to  choose  my  good  or  ill, 
A  right  to  damn  myself!     The  ill  is  mine. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  209 

I  never  will  repent!  "... 

Thus  Silva,  inwardly  debating,  all  his  ear 

Turned  into  audience  of  a  twofold  mind ; 

For  even  in  tumult  full-fraught  consciousness 

Had  plenteous  being  for  a  self  aloof 

That  gazed  and  listened,  like  a  soul  in  dreams 

Weaving  the  wondrous  tale  it  marvels  at. 

But  oft  the  conflict  slackened,  oft  strong  Love 

With  tidal  energy  returning  laid 

All  other  restlessness :  Fedalma  came, 

And  with  her  visionary  presence  brought 

What  seemed  a  waking  in  the  warm  spring  morn. 

He  still  was  pacing  on  the  stony  earth 

Under  the  deepening  night ;  the  fresh-lit  fires 

Were  flickering  on  dark  forms  and  eyes  that  met 

His  forward  and  his  backward  tread ;  but  she, 

She  was  within  him,  making  his  whole  self 

Mere  correspondence  with  her  image :  sense, 

In  all  its  deep  recesses  where  it  keeps 

The  mystic  stores  of  ecstasy,  was  turned 

To  memory  that  killed  the  hour,  like  wine. 

Then  Silva  said,  "  She,  by  herself,  is  life. 

What  was  my  joy  before  I  loved  her — what 

Shall  heaven  lure  us  with,  love  being  lost?  " — 

For  he  was  young. 

But  now  around  the  fires 
The  Gypsy  band  felt  freer;  Juan's  song 
Was  no  more  there,  nor  Juan's  friendly  ways 
For  links  of  amity  'twixt  their  wild  mood 
And  this  strange  brother,  this  pale  Spanish  duke, 
Who  with  their  Gypsy  badge  upon  his  breast 
Took  readier  place  within  their  alien  hearts 
As  a  marked  captive,  who  would  fain  escape. 
And  Nadar,  who  commanded  them,  had  known 
The  prison  in  Bedmar.     So  now,  in  talk 
Foreign  to  Spanish  ears,  they  said  their  minds, 
Discussed  their  chief's  intent,  the  lot  marked  out 
For  this  new  brother.      Would  he  wed  their  queen? 
And  some  denied,  saying  their  queen  would  wed 
14 


210  POEMS   OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Only  a  Gypsy  duke — one  who  would  join 

Their  bands  in  Telemsan.     But  others  thought 

Young  Hassan  was  to  wed  her ;  said  their  chief 

Would  never  trust  this  noble  of  Castile, 

Who  in  his  very  swearing  was  forsworn. 

And  then  one  fell  to  chanting,  in  wild  notes 

Recurrent  like  the  moan  of  outshut  winds, 

The  adjuration  they  were  wont  to  use 

To  any  Spaniard  who  would  join  their  tribe: 

Words  of.  plain  Spanish,  lately  stirred  anew 

And  ready  at  new  impulse.      Soon  the  rest, 

Drawn  to  the  stream  of  sound,  made  unison 

Higher  and  lower,  till  the  tidal  sweep 

Seemed  to  assail  the  Duke  and  close  him  round 

With  force  daemonic.      All  debate  till  now 

Had  wrestled  with  the  urgence  of  that  oath 

Already  broken ;  now  the  newer  oath 

Thrust  its  loud  presence  on  him.     He  stood  still, 

Close  baited  by  loud-barking  thoughts — fierce  hounds 

Of  that  Supreme,  the  irreversible  Past. 

The  ZINCALI  sing. 

Brother,  heav  and  take  the  curse, 
Curse  of  soul's  and  body's  throes, 
If  you  hate  not  all  our  foes, 
Chng  not  fast  to  all  our  woes. 
Turn  false  Zincalo  ! 

May  you  be  accurst 
By  hunger  and  by  thirst, 
By  sjtiked  pangs, 
Starvation's  fangs 
Clutching  you  alone 

When  none  but  jjec/'i//;/  ntltures  hear  you  moan. 
Curst  by  burning  hands, 
Curst  by  aching  brow, 
When  on  sea-wide  sands 
Fever  lays  you  loic; 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  211 

By  the  maddened  brain 
When  the  running  water  glistens, 
And  the  deaf  ear  listens,  listens, 
Prisoned  fire  within  the  vein, 
On  the  tongue  and  on  the  lip 

Not  a  sip 

From  the  earth  or  skies; 
Hot  the  desert  lies 
Pressed  into  your  anguish, 
Narrowing  earth  and  narrowing  sky 
Into  lonely  misery. 

Lonely  may  you  languish 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 
Hate  the  darkness,  hate  the  light, 
Pray  and  find  no  ear, 
Feel  no  brother  near, 
Till  on  death  you  cry, 
Death  who  passes  by, 
And  anew  you  groan, 

Scaring  the  vultures  all  to  leave  you  living  lone: 
Curst  by  soul's  and  body's  throes 
If  you  love  the  dark  men's  foes, 
Cling  not  fast  to  all  the  dark  men's  woes, 

Turn  false  Zincalo  ! 
Swear  to  hate  the  cruel  cross, 

The  silver  cross  ! 
Glittering,  laughing  at  the  blood 

Shed  below  it  in  a  flood 
When  it  glitters  over  Moorish  porches; 

Laughing  at  the  scent  of  flesh 
When  it  glitters  where  the  faggot  scorches, 
Burning  life's  mysterious  mesh: 
Blood  of  wandering  Israel, 
Blood  of  wandering  Ismael, 
Blood,  the  drink  of  Christian  scorn, 
Blood  of  wanderers,  sons  of  morn 
Where  the  life  of  men  began  : 
Swear  to  hate  the  cross  ! — 
Sign  of  all  the  wanderers'  f»rs, 


212  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Sign  of  all  the  wanderers1  woes — 

Else  its  curse  light  on  you  ! 
Else  the  curse  upon  you  light 
Of  its  sharp  red-sworded  might. 
May  it  lie  a  blood-red  blight 
On  all  things  within  your  sight : 
On  the  white  haze  of  the  mom, 
On  the  meadows  and  the  corn, 
On  the  sun  and  on  the  moon, 
On  the  clearness  of  the  noon, 
On  the  darkness  of  the  night. 
May  it  fill  your  aching  sight — 
Red-cross  sword  and  sword  blood-red — 
Till  it  press  upon  your  head, 
Till  it  lie  within  your  brain, 
Piercing  sharp,  a  cross  of  pain, 
Till  it  lie  upon  your  heart, 

Burning  hot,  a  cross  of  fire, 
Till  from  sense  in  every  part 
Pains  have  clustered  like  a  stinging  swarm 

In  the  cross's  form, 

And  you  see  nought  but  the  cross  of  blood, 
And  you  feel  nought  but  the  cross  of  fire : 
Curst  by  all  the  cross's  throes 
If  you  hate  not  all  our  foes, 
Cling  not  fast  to  all  our  woes, 
Turn  false  Zincalo  ! 

A  fierce  delight  was  in  the  Gypsies'  chant: 
They  thought  no  more  of  Silva,  only  felt 
Like  those  broad-chested  rovers  of  the  night 
Who  pour  exuberant  strength  upon  the  air. 
To  him  it  seemed  as  if  the  hellish  rhythm, 
Revolving  in  long  curves  that  slackened  now, 
Now  hurried,  sweeping  round  again  to  slackness, 
Would  cease  no  more.     What  use  to  raise  his  voice, 
Or  grasp  his  weapon?     He  was  powerless  now, 
With  these  new  comrades  of  his  future — he 
Who  had  been  wont  to  have  his  wishes  feared 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  213 

And  guessed  at  as  a  hidden  law  for  men. 

Even  the  passive  silence  of  the  night 

That  left  these  howlers  mastery,  even  the  moon, 

Rising  and  staring  with  a  helpless  face, 

Angered  him.      He  was  ready  now  to  fly 

At  some  loudthroat,  and  give  the  signal  so 

For  butchery  of  himself. 

But  suddenly 

The  sounds  that  travelled  toward  no  foreseen  close 
Were  torn  right  off  and  fringed  into  the  night; 
Sharp  Gypsy  ears  had  caught  the  onward  strain 
Of  kindred  voices  joining  in  the  chant. 
All  started  to  their  feet  and  mustered  close, 
Auguring  long-waited  summons.      It  was  come: 
The  summons  to  set  forth  and  join  their  chief. 
Fedalma  had  been  called,  and  she  was  gone 
Under  safe  escort,  Juan  following  her: 
The  camp — the  women,  children,  and  old  men — 
Were  moving  slowly  southward  on  the  way 
To  Almeria.      Silva  learned  no  more. 
He  marched  perforce ;  what  other  goal  was  his 
Than  where  Fedalma  was?     And  so  he  marched 
Through  the  dim  passes  and  o'er  rising  hills, 
Not  knowing  whither,  till  the  morning  came. 

The  Moorish  hall  in  the  castle  at  Bedmdr.  The  morning  twi- 
light dimly  shores  stains  of  blood  on  the  white  marble  floor  ; 
yet  there  has  been  a  careful  restoration  of  order  among  the 
sparse  objects  of  furniture.  Stretched  on  mats  lie  three 
corpses,  the  faces  bare,  the  bodies  covered  with  mantles.  A 
little  way  off,  with  rolled  matting  for  a  pillow,  lies  ZARCA, 
sleeping.  His  chest  and  arms  are  bare;  his  weapons,  tur- 
ban, mail-shirt,  and  other  upper  garments  lie  on  the  floor 
beside  him.  In  the  outer  gallery  Zincali  are  pacing,  at 
intervals,  past  the  arched  openings. 

ZARCA  (half  rising  and  resting  his  elbow  on 
the  pillow  while  he  looks  round'). 


214  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

The  morning !  I  have  slept  for  full  three  hours ; 

Slept  without  dreams,  save  of  my  daughter's  face. 

Its  sadness  waked  me.     Soon  she  will  be  here, 

Soon  must  outlive  the  worst  of  all  the  pains 

Bred  by  false  nurture  in  an  alien  home — 

As  if  a  lion  in  fangless  infancy 

Learned  love  of  creatures  that  with  fatal  growth 

It  scents  as  natural  prey,  and  grasps  and  tears, 

Yet  with  heart-hunger  yearns  for,  missing  them. 

She  is  a  lioness:  And  they — the  race 

That  robbed  me  of  her — reared  her  to  this  pain. 

He  will  be  crushed  and  torn.     There  was  no  help. 

But  she,  my  child,  will  bear  it.     For  strong  souls 

Live  like  fire-hearted  suns  to  spend  their  strength 

In  farthest  striving  action ;  breathe  more  free 

In  mighty  anguish  than  in  trivial  ease. 

Her  sad  face  waked  me.     I  shall  meet  it  soon 

Waking  .   .  . 

(He  rises  and  stands  looking  at  the  corpses. ) 

As  now  I  look  on  these  pale  dead, 
These  blossoming  branches  crushed  beneath  the  fall 
Of  that  broad  trunk  to  which  I  laid  my  axe 
With  fullest  foresight.     Ho  will  I  ever  face 
In  thought  beforehand  to  its  utmost  reach 
The  consequences  of  my  conscious  deeds; 
So  face  them  after,  bring  them  to  my  bed, 
And  never  drug  my  soul  to  sleep  with  lies. 
If  they  are  cruel,  they  shall  be  arraigned 
By  that  true  name;  they  shall  be  justified 
By  my  high  purpose,  by  the  clear-seen  good 
That  grew  into  my  vision  as  I  grew, 
And  makes  my  nature's  function,  the  full  pulse 
Of  inbred  kingship.     Catholics, 
Arabs,  and  Hebrews,  have  their  god  apiece 
To  fight  and  conquer  for  them,  or  be  bruised, 
Like  Allah  now,  yet  keep  avenging  stores 
Of  patient  wrath.     The  Zincali  have  no  God 
Who  speaks  to  them  and  calls  them  his,  unless 
I,  Zarca,  carry  living  in  my  frame 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  216 

The  power  divine  that  chooses  them  and  saves. 

"  Life  and  more  life  unto  the  chosen,  death 

To  all  things  living  that  would  stifle  them ! " 

So  speaks  each  god  that  makes  a  nation  strong ; 

Burns  trees  and  brutes  and  slays  all  hindering  men. 

The  Spaniards  boast  their  god  the  strongest  now ; 

They  win  most  towns  by  treachery,  make  most  slaves, 

Burn  the  most  vines  and  men,  and  rob  the  most. 

I  fight  against  that  strength,  and  in  my  turn 

Slay  these  brave  young  who  duteously  strove. 

Cruel?  ay,  it  is  cruel.    But,  how  else? 

To  save,  we  kill ;  each  blow  we  strike  at  guilt 

Hurts  innocence  with  its  shock.     Men  might  well  seek 

For  purifying  rites ;  even  pious  deeds 

Need  washing.     But  my  cleansing  waters  flow 

Solely  from  my  intent. 

(He  turns    away  from  the  bodies  to  where  his  gar- 
ments lie,  but  does  not  lift  them.) 

And  she  must  suffer! 

But  she  has  seen  the  unchangeable  and  bowed 
Her  head  beneath  the  yoke.     And  she  will  walk 
No  more  in  chilling  twilight,  for  to-day 
Rises  our  sun.     The  difficult  night  is  past; 
We  keep  the  bridge  no  more,  but  cross  it ;  march 
Forth  to  a  land  where  all  our  wars  shall  be 
With  greedy  obstinate  plants  that  will  not  yield 
Fruit  for  their  nurture.     All  our  race  shall  come 
From  north,  west,  east,  a  kindred  multitude, 
And  make  large  fellowship,  and  raise  inspired 
The  shout  divine,  the  unison  of  resolve. 
So  I,  so  she,  will  see  our  race  redeemed. 
And  their  keen  love  of  family  and  tribe 
Shall  no  more  thrive  on  cunning,  hide  and  lurk 
In  petty  arts  of  abject  hunted  life, 
But  grow  heroic  in  the  sanctioning  light, 
And  feed  with  ardent  blood  a  nation's  heart. 
That  is  my  work :  and  it  is  well  begun. 
On  to  achievement! 


216  POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

(He  takes  up  the  mail.- shirt,    and  looks  at  it,    then 
throws  it  down  again. ) 

No,  I'll  none  of  you! 

To-day  there'll  be  no  fighting.  A  few  hours, 
And  I  shall  doff  these  garments  of*the  Moor: 
Till  then  I  will  walk  lightly  and  breathe  high. 

SEPHARDO  (appearing  at  the  archway  leading  into  tin 
outer  gallery}. 

You  bade  me  wake  you  ... 

ZARCA. 

Welcome,  Doctor;  see,     » 
With  that  small  task  I  did  but  beckon  you 
To  graver  work.      You  know  these  corpses? 

SEPHARDO. 

Yes. 

I  would  they  were  not  corpses.     Storms  will  lay 
The  fairest  trees  and  leave  the  withered  stumps. 
This  Alvar  and  the  Duke  were  of  one  age, 
And  very  loving  friends.     I  minded  not 
The  sight  of  Don  Diego's  corpse,  for  death 
Gave  him  some  gentleness,  and  had  he  lived 
I  had  still  hated  him.     But  this  young  Alvar 
Was  doubly  noble,  as  a  gem  that  holds 
Bare  virtues  in  its  lustre ;  and  his  death 
Will  pierce  Don  Silva  with  a  poisoned  dart. 
This  fair  and  curly  youth  was  Arias, 
A  son  of  the  Pachecps ;  this  dark  face  .  .  . 

ZARCA. 

Enough!  you  know  their  names.     I  had  divined 
That  they  were  near  the  Duke,  most  like  had  served 
My  daughter,  were  her  friends ;  so  rescued  them 
From  being  flung  upon  the  heap  of  slain. 
Beseech  you,  Doctor,  if  you  owe  me  aught 
As  having  served  your  people,  take  the  pains 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  217 

To  see  these  bodies  buried  decently. 
And  let  their  names  be  writ  above  their  graves, 
As  those  of  brave  young  Spaniards  who  died  well. 
I  needs  must  bear  this  womanhood  in  my  heart — 
Bearing  uiy  daughter  there.     For  once  she  prayed — 
'Twas  at  our  parting — "  When  you  see  fair  hair 
Be  pitiful."     And  I  am  forced  to  look 
On  fair  heads  living  and  be  pitiless. 
Your  service,  Doctor,  will  be  done  to  her 

SEPHAKDO. 

A  service  doubly  dear.     For  these  young  dead, 
And  one  less  happy  Spaniard  who  still  lives, 
Are  offerings  which  I  wrenched  from  out  my  heart, 
Constrained  by  cries  of  Israel :  while  my  hands 
Rendered  the  victims  at  command,  my  eyes 
Closed  themselves  vainly,  as  if  vision  lay 
Through  those  poor  loopholes  only.     I  will  go 
And  see  the  graves  dug  by  some  cypresses. 

ZARCA. 

Meanwhile  the  bodies  shall  rest  here.     Farewell. 

(Exit  SEPHARDO.) 

Nay,  'tis  no  mockery.     She  keeps  me  so 
From  hardening  with  the  hardness  of  my  acts. 
This  Spaniard  shrouded  in  her  love — I  would 
He  lay  here  too  that  I  might  pity  him. 

Morning. — The  Placa  Santiago  in  Bedmdr.  A  crowd  of 
townsmen  forming  an  outer  circle :  within,  Zincali  and 
Moorish  soldiers  drawn  up  round  the  central  space.  On 
the  higher  ground  in  front  of  the  church  a  stake  with 
fagots  heaped,  and  at  a  little  distance  a  gibbet.  Moorish 
music.  ZARCA  enters,  wearing  his  gold  necklace  with 
the  Gypsy  badge  of  the  flaming  torch  over  the  dress  of  a 
Moorish  Captain,  accompanied  by  a  small  band  of  armed 
Zmcali,  who  fall  aside  and  range  themselves  with  the 
other  soldiers  while  he  takes  his  stand  in  front  of  the 


218  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

stake  and  gibbet.      The  music  ceases,  and  there  is  expect- 
ant silence. 

ZARCA. 

Men  of  Bedmar,  well-wishers,  and  allies, 

Whether  of  Moorish  or  of  Hebrew  blood, 

Who,  being  galled  by  the  hard  Spaniard's  yoke, 

Have  welcomed  our  quick  conquest  as  release, 

I,  Zarca,  chief  of  Spanish  Gypsies,  hold 

By  delegation  of  the  Moorish  King 

Supreme  command  within  this  town  and  fort. 

Nor  will  I,  with  false  show  of  modesty, 

Profess  myself  unworthy  of  this  post, 

For  so  I  should  but  tax  the  giver's  choice. 

And,  as  ye  know,  while  I  was  prisoner  here, 

Forging  the  bullets  meant  for  Moorish  hearts, 

But  likely  now  to  reach  another  mark, 

I  learned  the  secrets  of  the  town's  defence, 

Caught  the  loud  whispers  of  your  discontent, 

And  so  could  serve  the  purpose  of  the  Moor 

As  the  edge's  keenness  serves  the  weapon's  weight. 

My  Zmcali,  lynx-eyed  and  lithe  of  limb, 

Tracked  out  the  high  Sierra's  hidden  path, 

Guided  the  hard  ascent,  and  were  the  first 

To  scale  the  walls  and  brave  the  showering  stones. 

In  brief,  I  reached  this  rank  through  service  done 

By  thought  of  mine  and  valor  of  my  tribe, 

Yet  hold  it  but  in  trust,  with  readiness 

To  lay  it  down ;  for  we — the  Zincali — 

Will  never  pitch  our  tents  again  on  land 

The  Spaniard  grudges  us :  we  seek  a  home 

Where  we  may  spread  and  ripen  like  the  corn 

By  blessing  of  the  sun  and  spacious  earth. 

Ye  wish  us  well,  I  think,  and  are  our  friends? 

CROWD. 
Long  life  to  Zarca  and  his  Zmcali ! 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  219 


ZARCA. 

Now,  for  the  cause  of  our  assembling  here. 

'Twas  my  command  that  rescued  from  your  hands 

That  Spanish  Prior  and  Inquisitor 

Whom  in  fierce  retribution  you  had  bound 

And  meant  to  burn,  tied  to  a  planted  cross. 

I  rescued  him  with  promise  that  his  death 

Should  be  more  signal  in  its  justice — made 

Public  in  fullest  sense,  and  orderly. 

Here,  then,  you  see  the  stake — slow  death  by  fire ; 

And  there  a  gibbet — swift  death  by  the  cord. 

Now  hear  me,  Moors  and  Hebrews  of  Bedmar, 

Our  kindred  by  the  warmth  of  Eastern  blood! 

Punishing  cruel  wrong  by  cruelty 

We  copy  Christian  crime.     Vengeance  is  just: 

Justly  we  rid  the  earth  of  human  fiends 

Who  carry  hell  for  pattern  in  their  souls. 

But  in  high  vengeance  there  is  noble  scorn : 

It  tortures  not  the  torturer,  nor  gives 

Iniquitous  payment  for  iniquity. 

The  great  avenging  angel  does  not  crawl 

To  kill  the  serpent  with  a  mimic  fang; 

He  stands  erect,  with  sword  of  keenest  edge 

That  slays  like  lightning.     So  too  we  will  slay 

The  cruel  man ;  slay  him  because  he  works 

Woe  to  mankind.     And  I  have  given  command 

To  pile  these  fagots,  not  to  burn  quick  flesh, 

But  for  a  sign  of  that  dire  wrong  to  men 

Which  arms  our  wrath  with  justice.     While,  to  show 

This  Christian  worshipper  that  we  obey 

A  better  law  than  his,  he  shall  be  led 

Straight  to  the  gibbet  and  to  swiftest  death. 

For  I,  the  chieftain  of  the  Gypsies,  will, 

My  people  shed  no  blood  but  what  is  shed 

In  heat  of  battle  or  in  judgment  strict 

With  calm  deliberation  on  the  right. 

Such  is  my  will,  and  if  it  please  you — well. 


220  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

CROWD. 
It  pleases  us.     Long  life  to  Zarca! 

ZARCA. 

Hark! 

The  bell  is  striking,  and  they  bring  "even  now 
The  prisoner  from  the  fort.     What,  Nadar? 

NADAR  (has  appeared,  cutting  the  crowd,  and  advancing 
toward  ZARCA  till  he  is  near  enough  to  speak  in  an 
under-tone) . 

Chief, 

I  have  obeyed  your  word,  have  followed  it 
As  water  does  the  furrow  in  the  rock. 

ZARCA. 
Your  band  is  here? 

NADAR. 
Yes,  and  the  Spaniard  too. 

ZARCA. 
'Twas  so  I  ordered. 

NADAR. 

Ay,  but  this  sleek  hound, 
Who  slipped  his  collar  off  to  join  the  wolves, 
Has  still  a  heart  for  none  but  kennelled  brutes. 
He  rages  at  the  taking  of  the  town, 
Says  all  his  friends  are  butchered ;  and  one  corpse 
He  stumbled  on — well,  I  would  sooner  be 
A  murdered  Gypsy's  dog,  and  howl  for  him, 
Than  be  this  ^Spaniard.     Rage  has  made  him  whiter. 
One  townsman  taunted  him  with  his  escape, 
And  thanked  him  for  so  favoring  us.   .  .  , 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  221 


ZABCA. 

Enough. 

You  give  him  my  command  that  he  should  wait 
Within  the  castle,  till  I  saw  him? 

NADAR. 

Yes. 

But  he  defied  me,  broke  away,  ran  loose 
I  know  not  whither ;  he  may  soon  be  here. 
I  came  to  warn  you,  lest  he  work  us  harm. 

ZARCA. 

Fear  not,  I  know  the  road  I  travel  by : 

Its  turns  are  no  surprises.     He  who  rules 

Must  humor  full  as  much  as  he  commands; 

Must  let  men  vow  impossibilities ; 

Grant  folly's  prayers  that  hinder  folly's  wish 

And  serve  the  ends  of  wisdom.     Ah,  he  comes! 

[Sweeping  like  some  pale  herald  from  the  dead, 
Whose  shadow-nurtured  eyes,  dazed  by  full  light, 
See  nought  without,  but  give  reverted  sense 
To  the  soul's  imagery,  Silva  came, 
The  wondering  people  parting  wide  to  get 
Continuous  sight  of  him  as  he  passed  on — 
This  high  hidalgo,  who  through  blooming  years 
Had  shone  on  men  with  planetary  calm, 
Believed-in  with  all  sacred  images 
And  saints  that  must  be  taken  as  they  were, 
Though  rendering  meagre  service  for  men' s  praise : 
Bareheaded  now,  carrying  an  unsheathed  sword, 
And  on  his  breast,  where  late  he  bore  the  cross, 
Wearing  the  Gypsy  badge ;  his  form  aslant, 
Driven,  it  seemed,  by  some  invisible  chase, 
Right  to  the  front  of  Zarca.     There  he  paused.] 


222  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


.     DON  SILVA. 

Chief,  you  are  treacherous,  cruel,  devilish ! — 
Relentless  as  a  curse  that  once  let  loose 
From  lips  of  wrath,  lives  bodiless  to  destroy, 
And  darkly  traps  a  man  in  nets  of  guilt 
Which  could  not  weave  themselves  in  open  day 
Before  his  eyes.     Oh,  it  was  bitter  wrong 
To  hold  this  knowledge  locked  within  your  mind, 
To  stand  with  waking  eyes  in  broadest  light, 
And  see  me,  dreaming,  shed  my  kindred's  blood. 
'Tis  horrible  that  men  with  hearts  and  hands 
Should  smile  in  silence  like  the  firmament 
And  see  a  fellow-mortal  draw  a  lot 
On  which  themselves  have  written  agony! 
Such  injury  has  no  redress,  no  healing 
Save  what  may  lie  in  stemming  further  ill. 
Poor  balm  for  maiming!     Yet  I  come  to  claim  it. 

ZARCA. 

First  prove  your  wrongs,  and  I  will  hear  your  claim 
Mind,  you  are  not  commander  of  Bedmar, 
NOT  duke,  nor  knight,  nor  anything  for  me, 
Save  a  sworn  Gypsy,  subject  with  my  tribe, 
Over  whose  deeds  my  will  is-absolute. 
You  chose  that  lot,  and  would  have  railed  at  me 
Had  I  refused  it  you :  I  warned  you  first 
What  oaths  you  had  to  take  .  .  . 

DON  SILVA. 

You  never  warned  me 

That  you  had  linked  yourself  with  Moorish  men 
To  take  this  town  and  fortress  of  Bedmar — 
Slay  my  near  kinsman,  him  who  held  my  place, 
Our  house's  heir  and  guardian — slay  my  friend, 
My  chosen  brother — desecrate  the  church 
Where  once  my  mother  held  me  in  her  arms, 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  223 

Making  the  holy  chrism  holier 

With  tears  of  joy  that  fell  upon  my  brow! 

You  never  warned  .  .  . 

ZABCA. 

I  warned  you  of  your  oath. 

You  shrank  not,  were  resolved,  were  sure  your  place 
Would  never  miss  you,  and  you  had  your  will. 
I  am  no  priest,  and  keep  no  consciences : 
I  keep  my  own  place  and  my  own  command. 

DON  SILVA. 

I  said  my  place  would  never  miss  me — yes ! 

A  thousand  Spaniards  died  on  that  same  day 

And  were  not  missed ;  their  garments  clothed  the  backs 

That  else  were  bare.  .  .  . 

ZARCA. 

But  you  were  just  the  one 
Above  the  thousand,  had  you  known  the  die 
That  fate  was  throwing  then. 

DON  SILVA. 

You  knew  it — you ! 

With  fiendish  knowledge,  smiling  at  the  end. 
You  knew  what  snares  had  made  my  flying  steps 
Murderous ;  you  let  me  lock  my  soul  with  oaths 
Which  your  acts  made  a  hellish  sacrament. 
I  say,  you  knew  this  as  a  fiend  would  know  it, 
And  let  me  damn  myself. 

ZARCA. 

The  deed  was  done 

Before  you  took  your  oath,  or  reached  our  camp, — 
Done  when  you  slipped  in  secret  from  the  post 
'Twas  yours  to  keep,  and  not  to  meditate 


224  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

If  others  might  not  fill  it.     For  your  oath, 
What  man  is  he  who  brandishes  a  sword    . 
In  darkness,  kills  his  friends,  and  rages  then 
Against  the  night  that  kept  him  ignorant? 
Should  I,  for  one  unstable  Spaniard,  quit 
My  steadfast  ends  as  father  and  as  chief; 
Renounce  my  daughter  and  my  people's  hope, 
Lest  a  deserter  should  be  made  ashamed  1 

DON  SILVA. 

• 

Your  daughter — 0  great  God!     I  vent  but  madness. 
The  past  will  never  change.     I  come  to  stem 
Harm  that  may  yet  be  hindered.     Chief — this  stake — 
Tell  me  who  is  to  die!     Are  you  not  bound 
Yourself  to  him  you  took  in  fellowship? 
The  town  is  yours ;  let  me  but  save  the  blood 
That  still  is  warm  in  men  who  were  my  .  .  . 

ZARCA. 

Peace ! 
They  bring  the  prisoner. 

[Zarca  waved  his  arm 
With  head  averse,  in  peremptory  sign 
That  'twixt  them  now  there  should  be  space  and  silence. 
Most  eyes  had  turned  to  where  the  prisoner 
Advanced  among  his  guards;  and  Silva  too 
Turned  eagerly,  all  other  striving  quelled 
By  striving  with  the  dread  lest  he  should  see 
His  thought  outside  him.     And  he  saw  it  there. 
The  prisoner  was  Father  Isidor : 
The  man  whom  once  he  fiercely  had  accused 
As  author  of  his  misdeeds — whose  designs 
Had  forced  him  into  fatal  secrecy. 
The  imperious  and  inexorable  Will 
Was  yoked,  and  he  who  had  been  pitiless 
To  Silva' s  love,  was  led  to  pitiless  death. 
0  hateful  victory  of  blind  wishes — prayers 
Which  hell  had  overheard  and  swift  fulfilled! 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  225 

The  triumph  was  a  torture,  turning  all 
The  strength  of  passion  into  strength  of  pain. 
Remorse  was  born  within  him,  that  dire  birth 
Which  robs  all  else  of  nurture — cancerous, 
Forcing  each  pulse  to  feed  its  anguish,  turning 
All  sweetest  residues  of  healthy  life 
To  fibrous  clutches  of  slow  misery.        . 
Silva  had  but  rebelled — he  was  not  free ; 
And  all  the  subtle  cords  that  bound  his  soul 
Were  tightened  by  the  strain  of  one  rash  leap 
Made  in  defiance.     He  accused  no  more, 
But  dumbly  shrank  before  accusing  throngs 
Of  thoughts,  the  impetuous  recurrent  rush 
Of  all  his  past-created,  unchanged  self. 
The  Father  came  bareheaded,  frocked,  a  rope 
Around  his  neck, — but  clad  with  majesty, 
The  strength  of  resolute  undivided  souls 
Who,  owning  law,  obey  it.     In  his  hand 
He  bore  a  crucifix,  and  praying,  gazed 
Solely  on  that  white  image.     But  his  guards 
Parted  in  front,  and  paused  as  they  approached 
The  centre  where  the  stake  was.     Isidor 
Lifted  his  eyes  to  look  around  him — calm, 
Prepared  to  speak  last  words  of  willingness 
To  meet  his  death — last  words  of  faith  unchanged, 
That,  working  for  Christ's  kingdom,  he  had  wrought 
Righteously.     But  his  glance  met  Silva' s  eyes 
And  drew  him.     Even  images  of  stone 
Look  living  with  reproach  on  him  who  maims, 
Profanes,  defiles  them.     Silva  penitent 
Moved  forward,  would  have  knelt  before  the  man 
Who  still  was  one  with  all  the  sacred  things 
That  came  back  on  him  in  their  sacredness, 
Kindred,  and  oaths,  and  awe,  and  mystery. 
But  at  the  sight,  the  Father  thrust  the  cross 
With  deprecating  act  before  him,  and  his  face 
Pale-quivering,  flashed  out  horror  like  white  light 
Flashed  from  the  angel's  sword  that  dooming  drave 
The  sinner  to  the  wilderness.     He  spoke.] 
15 


226  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


FATHER  ISIDOR. 

Back  from  me,  traitorous  and  accursed  man ! 
Defile  not  me,  who  grasp  the  holiest, 
With  touch  or  breath!     Thou  foulest  murderer! 
Fouler  than  Cain  who  struck  his  brother  down 
In  jealous  rage,  thou  for  thy  base  delight 
Hast  oped  the  gate  for  wolves  to  come  and  tear 
Uncounted  brethren,  weak  and  strong  alike, 
The  helpless  priest,  the  warrior  all  unarmed 
Against  a  faithless  leader :  on  thy  head 
Will  rest  the  sacrilege,  on  thy  soul  the  blood. 
These  blind  barbarians,  misbelievers,  Moors, 
Are  but  as  Pilate  and  his  soldiery ; 
Thou,  Judas,  weighted  with  that  heaviest  crime 
Which  deepens  hell !     I  warned  you  of  this  end. 
A  traitorous  leader,  false  to  God  and  man, 
A  knight  apostate, -you  shall  soon  behold 
Above  your  people's  blood  the  light  of  flames 
Kindled  by  you  to  burn  me — burn  the  flesh 
Twin  with  your  father's.     0  most  wretched  man! 
Whose  memory  shall  be  of  broken  oaths — 
Broken  for  lust — I  turn  away  mine  eyes 
For  ever  from  you.      See,  the  stake  is  ready 
And  I  am  ready  too. 

DON  SILVA. 

It  shall  not  be! 
(Raising  his  sivord,  he  rushes  in  front  of  the  guards 

who  are  advancing,  and  impedes  them.) 
If  you  are  human,  Chief,  hear  my  demand ! 
Stretch  not  my  soul  upon  the  endless  rack 
Of  this  man's  torture! 

ZABCA. 

Stand  aside,  my  lord! 

Put  up  your  sword.     You  vowed  obedience 
To  me,  your  chief.     It  was  your  latest  vow. 


THE  SPANISH   GYPSY.  227 


DON  SILVA. 

No!  hew  me  from  the  spot,  or  fasten  me 
Amid  the  fagots  too,  if  he  must  burn. 

ZAKCA. 

What  should  befall  that  persecuting  monk 

Was  fixed  before  you  came  :  no  cruelty, 

No  nicely  measured  torture,  weight  for  weight 

Of  injury,  no  luscious-toothed  revenge 

That  justifies  the  injurer  by  its  joy  . 

I  seek  but  rescue  and  security 

For  harmless  men,  and  such  security 

Means  death  to  vipers  and  inquisitors. 

These  fagots  shall  but  innocently  blaze 

In  sign  of  gladness,  when  this  man  is  dead, 

That  one  more  torturer  has  left  the  earth. 

'Tis  not  for  infidels  to  burn  live  men 

And  ape  the  rules  of  Christian  piety. 

This  hard  oppressor  shall  not  die  by  fire : 

He  mounts  the  gibbet,  dies  a  speedy  death, 

That,  like  a  transfixed  dragon,  he  may  cease 

To  vex  mankind.     Quick,  guards,  and  clear  the  path ! 

[As  well-trained  hounds  that  hold  their  fleetness  tens* 

In  watchful,  loving  fixity  of  dark  eyes, 

And  move  with  movement  of  their  master's  will, 

The  Gypsies  with  a  wavelike  swiftness  met 

Around  the  Father,  and  in  wheeling  course 

Passed  beyond  Silva  to  the  gibbet's  foot, 

Behind  their  chieftain.     Sudden  left  alone 

With  weapon  bare,  the  multitude  aloof, 

Silva  was  mazed  in  doubtful  consciousness, 

As  one  who  slumbering  in  the  day  awakes 

From  striving  into  freedom,. and  yet  feels 

His  sense  half  captive  to  intangible  things ; 

Then  with  a  flush  of  new  decision  sheathed 


228  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

His  futile  naked  weapon,  and  strode  quick 
To  Zarca,  speaking  with  a  voice  new-toned, 
The  struggling  soul's  hoarse,  suffocated  cry 
Beneath  the  grappling  anguish  of  despair.] 

DON  SILVA, 

You,  Zincalo,  devil,  blackest  infidel! 
You  cannot  hate  that  man  as  you  hate  me! 
Finish  your  torture — take  me — lift  me  up 
And  let  the  crowd  spit  at  me — every  Moor 
Shoot  reeds  at  me,  and  kill  me  with  slow  death 
Beneath  the  mid-day  fervor  of  the  sun — 
Or  crucify  me  with  a  thieving  hound — 
Slake  your  hate  so,  and  I  will  thank  it .  spare  me 
Only  this  man ! 

ZARCA. 

Madman,  I  hate  you  not, 
But  if  I  did,  my  hate  were  poorly  served 
By  my  device,  if  I  should  strive  to  mix 
A  bitterer  misery  for  you  than  to  taste 
With  leisure  of  a  soul  in  unharmed  limbs 
The  flavor  of  your  folly.     For  my  course, 
It  has  a  goal,  and  takes  no  truant  path 
Because  of  you.     I  am  your  chief :  to  me 
You're  nought  more  than  a  Zincalo  in  revolt. 

Dox  SILVA. 

No,  I'm  no  Zincalo!     I  here  disown 
The  name  I  took  in  madness.     Here  I  tear 
This  badge  away.     I  am  a  Catholic  knight, 
A  Spaniard  who  will  die  a  Spaniard's  death! 

[Hark !  while  he  casts  the  badge  upon  the  ground 
And  tramples  on  it,  Silva  hears  a  shout  : 
Was  it  a  shout  that  threatened  him?     He  looked 
From  out  the  dizzying  flames  of  his  own  rage 


"  Down 

Fell  the  great  chief,  and  Silva  staggering  back, 
Heard  not  the  gypsies  shriek."—  Page  229. 

Eliot— Spanish  Gypsy. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  229 

la  hope  of  adversaries — and  he  saw  above 

The  form  of  Father  Isidor  upswung 

Convulsed  with  martyr  throes ;  and  knew  the  shout 

For  wonted  exultation  of  the  crowd 

When  malefactors  die — or  saints,  or  heroes. 

And  now  to  him  that  white-frocked  murdered  form 

Which  hanging  judged  him  as  its  murderer, 

Turned  to  a  symbol  of  his  guilt,  and  stirred 

Tremors  till  then  unwaked.     With  sudden  snatch 

At  something  hidden  in  his  breast,  he  strode 

Right  upon  Zarca:  at  the  instant,  down 

Fell  the  great  Chief,  and  Silva,  staggering  back, 

Heard  not  the  Gypsies'  shriek,  felt  not  the  fangs 

Of  their  fierce  grasp— heard,  felt  but  Zarca's  words 

Which  seemed  his  soul  outleaping  in  a  cry 

And  urging  men  to  run  like  rival  waves 

Whose  rivalry  is  but  obedience.] 


ZAKCA  (as  he  falls). 
My  daughter!  call  her!     Call  my  daughter! 

NADAR  (supporting  ZARCA  and  crying  to  the  Gypsies 
who  have  clutched  SILVA). 

Stay! 

Tear  not  the  Spaniard,  tie  him  to  the  stake : 
Hear  what  the  Chief  shall  bid  us — there  is  time! 

[Swiftly  they  tied  him,  pleasing  vengeance  so 

With  promise  that  would  leave  them  free  to  watch 

Their  stricken  good,  their  Chief  stretched  helplessly 

Pillowed  upon  the  strength  of  loving  limbs. 

He  heaved  Jow  groans,  but  would  not  spend  his  breath 

In  useless  words :  he  waited  till  she  came, 

Keeping  his  life  within  the  citadel 

Of  one  great  hope.     And  now  around  him  closed 

(But  in  wide  circle,  checked  by  loving  fear) 


230  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

His  people  all,  holding  their  wails  suppressed 
Lest  Death  belie ved-in  should  be  over-bold : 
All  life  hung  on  their  Chief — he  would  not  die; 
His  image  gone,  there  were  no  wholeness  left 
To  make  a  world  of  for  the  Zincali's  thought. 
Eager  they  stood,  but  hushed;  the  outer  crowd 
Spoke  only  in  low  murmurs,  and  some  climbed 
And  clung  with  legs  and  arms  on  perilous  coigns, 
Striving  to  see  where  that  colossal  life 
Lay  panting — lay  a  Titan  struggling  still 
To  hold  and  give  the  precious  hidden  fire 
Before  the  stronger  grappled  him.     Above 
The  young  bright  morning  cast  athwart  white  walls 
Her  shadows  blue,  and  with  their  clear-cut  line, 
Mildly  relentless  as  the  dial-hand's, 
Measured  the  shrinking  future  of  an  hour 
Which  held  a  shrinking  hope.     And  all  the  while 
The  silent  beat  of  time  in  each  man's  soul 
Made  aching  pulses. 

But  the  cry,  "  She  comes!  " 
Parted  the  crowd  like  waters  :  and  she  came. 
Swiftly  as  once  before,  inspired  with  joy, 
She  flashed  across  the  space  and  made  new  light, 
Glowing  upon  the  glow  of  evening, 
So  swiftly  now  she  came,  inspired  with  woe, 
Strong  with  the  strength  of  all  her  father's  pain 
Thrilling  her  as  with  fire  of  rage  divine 
And  battling  energy.     She  knew— saw  all: 
The  stake  with  Silva  bound — her  father  pierced— 
To  this  she  had  been  born :  a  second  time 
Her  father  called  her  to  the  task  of  life. 

She  knelt  beside  him.     Then  he  raised  himself, 

And  on  her  face  there  flashed  from  his  the  light 

As  of  a  star  that  waned,  but  flames  anew 

In  mighty  dissolution ;  'twas  the  flame 

Of  a  surviving  trust,  in  agony. 

He  spoke  the  parting  prayer  that  was  command, 

Must  sway  her  will,  and  reign  invisibly.] 


THE  SPANISH   GYPSY.  231 


ZARCA. 

My  daughter,  you  have  promised — you  will  live 

To  save  our  people.     In  my  garments  here 

I  carry  written  pledges  from  the  Moor : 

He  will  keep  faith  in  Spain  and  Africa. 

Your  weakness  may  be  stronger  than  my  strength, 

Winning  more  love.  ...   I  cannot  tell  the  end.   . 

I  held  my  people's  good  within  my  breast. 

Behold,  now  I  deliver  it  to  you. 

See,  it  still  breathes  unstrangled — if  it  dies, 

Let  not  your  failing  will  be  murderer.   .   .   . 

Rise,  tell  our  people  now  I  wait  in  pain  .   .  . 

I  cannot  die  until  I  hear  them  say 

They  will  obey  you. 

[Meek,  she  pressed  her  lips 
With  slow  solemnity  upon  his  brow, 
Sealing  her  pledges.     Firmly  then  she  rose, 
And  met  her  people's  eyes  with  kindred  gaze, 
Dark-flashing,  fired  by  effort  strenuous 
Trampling  on  pain.] 

FED  ALMA. 

Ye  Zincali  all,  who  hear ! 
Your  Chief  is  dying :  I  his  daughter  live 
To  do  his  dying  will.     He  asks  you  now 
To  promise  me  obedience  as  your  Queen, 
That  we  may  seek  the  land  he  won  for  us, 
And  live  the  better  life  for  which  he  toiled. 
Speak  now,  and  fill  my  father's  dying  ear 
With  promise  that  you  will  obey  him  dead, 
Obeying  me  his  child. 

[Straightway  arose 

A  shout  of  promise,  sharpening  into  cries 
That  seemed  to  plead  despairingly  with  death.] 


232  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


THE  ZINCALI. 

We  will  obey!     Our  chief  shall  never  die! 
We  will  obey  him — will  obey  our  Queen! 

[The  shout  unanimous,  the  concurrent  rush 

Of  many  voices,  quiring  shook  the  air 

With  multitudinous  wave :  now  rose,  now  fell, 

Then  rose  again,  the  echoes  following  slow, 

As  if  the  scattered  brethren  of  the  tribe 

Had  caught  afar  and  joined  the  ready  vow. 

Then  some  could  hold  no  longer,  but  must  rush 

To  kiss  his  dying  feet,  and  some  to  kiss 

The  hem  of  their  Queen's  garment.     But  she  raised 

Her  hand  to  hush  them.     "  Hark !  your  Chief  may  speak 

Another  wish."     Quickly  she  kneeled  again, 

While  they  upon  the  ground  kept  motionless, 

With  head  outstretched.     They  heard  his  words ;  for  now, 

Grasping  at  Nadar's  arm,  he  spoke  more  loud, 

As  one  who,  having  fought  and  conquered,  hurls 

His  strength  away  with  hurling  off  his  shield.] 

ZARCA. 

Let  loose  the  Spaniard!  give  him  back  his  sword: 
He  cannot  move  to  any  vengeance  more — 
His  soul  is  locked  'twixt  two  opposing  crimes. 
I  charge  you  let  him  go  unharmed  and  free 
Now  through  your  midst.   .   .   „ 

[With  that  he  sank  again — 

His  breast  heaved  strongly  tow'rd  sharp  sudden  falls, 
And  all  his  life  seemed  needed  for  each  breath : 
Yet  once  he  spoke.] 

My  daughter,  lay  your  arm 

Beneath  my  head  ...   so  ...  bend  and  breathe  on  me, 
I  cannot  see  you  more  .   .   .  the  Night  is  come. 
Be  strong  .   .  .  remember  ...  I  can  only  .  .  .  die. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  233 

[His  voice  went  into  silence,  but  his  breast 

Heaved  long  and  moaned :  its  broad  strength  kept  a  life 

That  heard  nought,  saw  nought,  save  what  once  had  been, 

And  what  might  be  in  days  and  realms  afar — 

Which  now  in  pale  procession  faded  on 

Toward  the  thick  darkness.     And  she  bent  above 

In  sacramental  watch  to  see  great  Death, 

Companion  of  her  future,  who  would  wear 

For  ever  in  her  eyes  her  father's  form. 

And  yet  she  knew  that  hurrying  feet  had  gone 

To  do  the  Chief  s  behest,  and  in  her  soul 

He  who  was  once  its  lord  was  being  jarred 

With  loosening  of  cords,  that  would  not  loose 

The  tightening  torture  of  his  anguish.     This — 

Oh,  she  knew  it! — knew  it  as  martyrs  knew 

The  prongs  that  tore  their  flesh,  while  yet  their  tongues 

Refused  the  ease  of  lies.     In  moments  high 

Space  widens  in  the  soul.     And  so  she  knelt, 

Clinging  with  piety  and  awed  resolve 

Beside  this  altar  of  her  father's  life, 

Seeing  long  travel  under  solemn  suns 

Stretching  beyond  it;  never  turned  her  eyes, 

Yet  felt  that  Silva  passed ;  beheld  his  face 

Pale,  vivid,  all  alone,  imploring  her 

Across  black  waters  fathomless. 

And  he  passed. 

The  Gypsies  made  wide  pathway,  shrank  aloof 
As  those  who  fear  to  touch  the  thing  they  hate, 
Lest  hate  triumphant,  mastering  all  the  limbs, 
Should  tear,  bite,  crush,  in  spite  of  hindering  will. 
Slowly  he  walked,  reluctant  to  be  safe 
And  bear  dishonored  life  which  none  assailed : 
Walked  hesitatingly,  all  his  frame  instinct 
With  high-born  spirit,  never  used  to  dread 
Or  crouch  for  smiles,  yet  stung,  yet  quivering 
With  helpless  strength,  and  in  his  soul  convulsed 
By  visions  where  pale  horror  held  a  lamp 
Over  wide-reaching  crime.     Silence  hung  round; 


234  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

It  seemed  the  Plaga  hushed  itself  to  hear 

His  footsteps  and  the  Chief's  deep  dying  breath. 

Eyes  quickened  in  the  stillness,  and  the  light 

Seemed  one  clear  gaze  upon  his  misery. 

And  yet  he  could  not  pass  her  without  pause : 

One  instant  he  must  pause  and  look  at  her; 

But  with  that  glance  at  her  averted  head, 

New-urged  by  pain  he  turned  away  and  went, 

Carrying  for  ever  with  him  what  he  fled — 

Her  murdered  love — her  love,  a  dear  wronged  ghost 

Facing  him,  beauteous,  'mid  the  throngs  of  hell. 

0  fallen  and  forsaken !  were  no  hearts 
Amid  that  crowd,  mindful  of  what  had  been? — 
Hearts  such  as  wait  on  beggared  royalty, 
Or  silent  watch  by  sinners  who  despair? 

Silva  had  vanished.     That  dismissed  revenge 
Made  larger  room  for  sorrow  in  fierce  hearts ; 
And  sorrow  filled  them.     For  the  Chief  was  dead. 
The  mighty  breast  subsided  slow  to  calm, 
Slow  from  the  face  the  ethereal  spirit  waned, 
As  wanes  the  parting  glory  from  the  heights, 
And  leaves  them  in  their  pallid  majesty. 
Fedalma  kissed  the  marble  lips,  and  said, 
"  He  breathes  no  more. "     And  then  a  long  loud  wail. 
Poured  out  upon  the  morning,  made  her  light 
Ghastly  as  smiles  on  some  fair  maniac's  face 
Smiling  unconscious  o'er  her  bridegroom's  corse. 
The  wailing  men  in  eager  press  closed  round, 
And  made  a  shadowing  pall  beneath  the  sun. 
They  lifted  reverent  the  prostrate  strength, 
Sceptred  anew  by  death.     Fedalma  walked 
Tearless,  erect,  following  the  dead — her  cries 
Deep  smothering  in  her  breast,  as  one  who  guides 
Her  children  through  the  wilds,  and  sees  and  knows 
Of  danger  more  than  they;  and  feels  more  pangs, 
Yet  shrinks  not,  groans  not,  bearing  in  her  heart 
Their  ignorant  misery  and  their  trust  in  her. 


"  Their  sails  .  .  . 
Like  broad  wings  poised."— Page  233. 

Eliot— Spanish  Gypsy. 


BOOK  V. 


THE  eastward  rocks  of  Almeria's  bay 

Answer  long  farewells  of  the  travelling  sun 

With  softest  glow  as  from  an  inward  pulse 

Changing  and  flushing :  all  the  Moorish  ships 

Seem  conscious  too,  and  shoot  out  sudden  shadows ; 

Their  black  hulls  snatch  a  glory,  and  their  sails 

Show  variegated  radiance,  gently  stirred 

Like  broad  wings  poised.     Two  galleys  moored  apart 

Show  decks  as  busy  as  a  home  of  ants 

Storing  new  forage;  from  their  sides  the  boats, 

Slowly  pushed  off,  anon  with  flashing  oar 

Made  transit  to  the  quay's  smooth-quarried  edge, 

Where  thronging  Gypsies  are  in  haste  to  lade 

Each  as  it  comes  with  grandames,  babes,  and  wives, 

Or  with  dust-tinted  goods,  the  company 

Of  wandering  years.      Nought  seems  to  lie  unmoved, 

For  'mid  the  throng  the  lights  and  shadows  play, 

And  make  all  surface  eager,  while  the  boats 

Sway  restless  as  a  horse  that  heard  the  shouts 

And  surging  hum  incessant.     Naked  limbs 

With  beauteous  ease  bend,  lift,  and  throw,  or  raise 

High  signalling  hands.     The  black-haired  mother  steps 

Athwart  the  boat's  edge,  and  with  opened  arms, 

A  wandering  Isis  outcast  from  the  gods, 

Leans  toward  her  lifted  little  one.     The  boat 

Full-laden  cuts  the  waves,  and  dirge-like  cries 

Rise  and  then  fall  within  it  as  it  moves 

From  high  to  lower  and  from  bright  to  dark. 

Hither  and  thither,  grave  white-turbaned  Moors 

Move  helpfully,  and  some  bring  welcome  gifts, 

Bright  stuffs  and  cutlery,  and  bags  of  seed 


236  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

To  make  new  waving  crops  in  Africa. 

Others  aloof  with  folded  arms  slow-eyed 

Survey  man' s  labor,  saying, "  God  is  great ; " 

Or  seek  with  question  deep  the  Gypsies'  root, 

And  whether  their  false  faith,  being  small,  will  prove 

Less  damning  than  the  copious  false  creeds 

Of  Jews  and  Christians :  Moslem  subtlety 

Found  balanced  reasons,  warranting  suspense 

As  to  whose  hell  was  deepest — 'twas  enough 

That  there  was  room  for  all.     Thus  the  sedate. 

The  younger  heads  were  busy  with  the  tale 

Of  that  great  Chief  whose  exploits  helped  the  Moor. 

And,  talking  still,  they  shouldered  past  their  friends 

Following  some  lure  which  held  their  distant  gaze 

To  eastward  of  the  quay,  where  yet  remained 

A  low  black  tent  close  guarded  all  around 

By  well-armed  Gypsies.     Fronting  it  above, 

Raised  by  stone  steps  that  sought  a  jutting  strand, 

Fedalma  stood  and  marked  with  anxious  watch 

Each  laden  boat  the  remnant  lessening 

Of  cargo  on  the  shore,  or  traced  the  course 

Of  Nadar  to  and  fro  in  hard  command 

Of  noisy  tumult;  imaging  oft  anew 

How  much  of  labor  still  deferred  the  hour 

When  they  must  lift  the  boat  and  bear  away 

Her  father' s  coffin,  and  her  feet  must  quit 

This  shore  for  ever.     Motionless  she  stood, 

Black-crowned  with  wreaths  of  many -shadowed  hair; 

Black-robed,  but  bearing  wide  upon  her  breast 

Her  father's  golden  necklace  and  his  badge. 

Her  limbs  were  motionless,  but  in  her  eyes 

And  in  her  breathing  lip's  soft  tremulous  curve 

Was  intense  motion  as  of  prisoned  fire 

Escaping  subtly  in  outleaping  thought. 

She  watches  anxiously,  and  yet  she  dreams ; 
The  busy  moments  now  expand,  now  shrink 
To  narrowing  swarms  within  the  refluent  space 
Of  changeful  consciousness.     For  in  her  thought 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  237 

Already  she  has  left  the  fading  shore, 

Sails  with  her  people,  seeks  an  unknown  land, 

And  bears  the  burning  length  of  weary  days 

That  parching  fall  upon  her  father's  hope, 

Which  she  must  plant  and  see  it  wither  only — 

Wither  and  die.      She  saw  the  end  begun. 

The  Gypsy  hearts  were  not  unfaithful :  she 

Was  centre  to  the  savage  loyalty 

Which  vowed  obedience  to  Zarca  dead. 

But  soon  their  natures  missed  the  constant  stress 

Of  his  command,  that,  while  it  fired,  restrained 

By  urgency  supreme,  and  left  no  play 

To  fickle  impulse  scattering  desire. 

They  loved  their  Queen,  trusted  in  Zarca' s  child, 

Would  bear  her  o'er  the  desert  on  their  arms 

And  think  the  weight  a  gladsome  victory ; 

But  that  great  force  which  knit  them  into  one, 

The  invisible  passion  of  her  father's  soul, 

That  wrought  them  visibly  into  its  will, 

And  would  have  bound  their  lives  with  permanonce, 

Was  gone.     Already  Hassan  and  two  bands, 

Drawn  by  fresh  baits  of  gain,  had  newly  sold 

Their  service  to  the  Moors,  despite  her  call, 

Known  as  the  echo  of  her  father's  will, 

To  all  the  tribe,  that  they  should  pass  with  her 

Straightway  to  Telemsan.     They  were  not  moved 

By  worse  rebellion  than  the  wilful  wish 

To  fashion  their  own  service ;  they  still  meant 

To  come  when  it  should  suit  them.     But  she  said, 

This  is  the  cloud  no  bigger  than  a  hand, 

Sure-threatening.     In  a  little  while,  the  tribe 

That  was  to  be  the  ensign  of  the  race, 

And  draw  it  into  conscious  union, 

Itself  would  break  in  small  and  scattered  bands 

That,  living  on  scant  prey,  would  still  disperse 

And  propagate  forgetfulness.     Brief  years, 

And  that  great  purpose  fed  with  vital  fire 

That  might  have  glowed  for  half  a  century, 

Subduing,  quickening,  shaping,  like  a  sun — 


238  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Would  be  a  faint  tradition,  flickering  low 
In  dying  memories,  fringing  with  dim  light 
The  nearer  dark. 

Far,  far  the  future  stretched 
Beyond  that  busy  present  on  the  quay, 
Far  her  straight  path  beyond  it.     Yet  she  watched 
To  mark  the  growing  hour,  and  yet  in  dream 
Alternate  she  beheld  another  track, 
And  felt  herself  unseen  pursuing  it 
Close  to  a  wanderer,  who  with  haggard  gaze 
Looked  out  on  loneliness.     The  backward  years — 
Oh,  she  would  not  forget  them — would  not  drink 
Of  waters  that  brought  rest,  while  he  far  off 
Eemembered.     "  Father,  I  renounced  the  joy ; 
You  must  forgive  the  sorrow." 

So  she  stood, 

Her  struggling  life  compressed  into  that  hour, 
Yearning,  resolving,  conquering ;  though  she  seemed 
Still  as  a  tutelary  image  sent 
To  guard  her  people  and  to  be  the  strength 
Of  some  rock-citadel. 

Below  her  sat 

Slim  mischievous  Hinda,  happy,  red-bedecked 
With  rows  of  berries,  grinning,  nodding  oft, 
And  shaking  high  her  small  dark  arm  and  hand 
Responsive  to  the  black-maned  Ismael, 
Who  held  aloft  his  spoil,  and  clad  in  skins 
Seemed  the  Boy-prophet  of  the  wilderness 
Escaped  from  tasks  prophetic.     But  anon 
Hinda  would  backward  turn  upon  her  knees, 
And  like  a  pretty  loving  hound  would  bend 
To  fondle  her  Queen's  feet,  then  lift  her  head 
Hoping  to  feel  the  gently  pressing  palm 
Which  touched  the  deeper  sense.     Fedalma  knew — 
From  out  the  black  robe  stretched  her  speaking  hand 
And  shared  the  girl's  content. 

So  the  dire  hours 

Burdened  with  destiny— the  death  of  hopes 
Darkening  long  generations,  or  the  birth 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  239 

Of  thoughts  undying — such  hours  sweep  along 
In  their  aerial  ocean  measureless 
Myriads  of  little  joys,  that  ripen  sweet 
And  soothe  the  sorrowful  spirit  of  the  world, 
Groaning  and  travailing  with  the  painful  birth 
Of  slow  redemption. 

But  emerging  now 

From  eastward  fringing  lines  of  idling  men 
Quick  Juan  lightly  sought  the  upward  steps 
Behind  Fedalma,  and  two  paces  off, 
With  head  uncovered,  said  in  gentle  tones, 
"Lady  Fedalma!  " — (Juan's  password  now 
Used  by  no  other),  and  Fedalma  turned, 
Knowing  who  sought  her.     He  advanced  a  step, 
And  meeting  straight  her  large  calm  questioning  gaze, 
Warned  her  of  some  grave  purport  by  a  face 
That  told  of  trouble.     Lower  still  he  spoke. 

JUAN. 

Look  from  me,  lady,  towards  a  moving  form 

That  quits  the  crowd  and  seeks  the  lonelier  strand — 

A  tall  and  gray-clad  pilgrim.   .   .   . 

[Solemnly 

His  low  tones  fell  on  her,  as  if  she  passed 
Into  religious  dimness  among  tombs, 
And  trod  on  names  in  everlasting  rest. 
Lingeringly  she  looked,  and  then  with  voice 
Deep  and  yet  soft,  like  notes  from  some  long  chord 
Responsive  to  thrilled  air,  said — ] 

FEDALMA. 

It  is  he! 

[Juan  kept  silence  for  a  little  space,  • 
With  reverent  caution,  lest  his  lighter  grief 
Might  seem  a  wanton  touch  upon  her  pain. 


240  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

But  time  was  urging  him  with  visible  flight, 
Changing  the  shadows :  he  must  atter  all.] 

JUAN. 

That  man  was  young  when  last  I  pressed  his  hand- 
In  that  dread  moment  when  he  left  Bedmar. 
He  has  aged  since :  the  week  has  made  him  gray. 
And  yet  I  know  him — knew  the  white-streaked  hair 
Before  I  saw  his  face,  as  I  should  know 
The  tear-dimmed  writing  of  a  friend.     See  now — 
Does  he  not  linger — pause? perhaps  expect  .   . 

[Juan  pled  timidly :  Fedalma's  eyes 

Flashed;  and  through  all  her  frame  there  ran  the  sh(  ck 

Of  some  sharp- wounding  joy,  like  his  who  hastes 

And  dreads  to  come  too  late,  and  comes  in  time 

To  press  a  loved  hand  dying.     She  was  mute 

And  made  no  gesture :  all  her  being  paused 

In  resolution,  as  some  leonine  wave 

That  makes  a  moment's  silence  ere  it  leaps.] 

JUAN. 

He  came  from  Carthagena,  in  a  boat 

Too  slight  for  safety ;  yon  small  two-oared  boat 

Below  the  rock ;  the  fisher-boy  within 

Awaits  his  signal.     But  the  pilgrim  waits.   .  .  . 

FED  ALMA. 

Yes,  I  will  go! — Father,  I  owe  him  this, 

For  loving  me  made  all  his  misery. 

And  we  will  look  once  more — will  say  farewell 

As  in  a  solemn  rite  to  strengthen  us 

For  our  eternal  parting.     Juan,  stay 

Here  in  my  place,  to  warn  me,  were  there  need. 

And,  Hinda,  follow  me! 

[All  men  who  watched 
Lost  her  regretfully,  then  drew  content 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  J 

From  thought  that  she  must  quickly  come  again, 
And  filled  the  time  with  striving  to  be  near. 

She,  down  the  steps,  along  the  sandy  brink 

To  where  he  stood,  walked  firm ;  with  quickened  step 

The  moment  when  each  felt  the  other  saw. 

He  moved  at  sight  of  her:  their  glances  met; 

It  seemed  they  could  no  more  remain  aloof 

Than  nearing  waters  hurrying  into  one. 

Yet  their  steps  slackened  and  they  paused  apart, 

Pressed  backward  by  the  force  of  memories 

Which  reigned  supreme  as  death  above  desire. 

Two  paces  off  they  stood  and  silently 

Looked  at  each  other.     Was  it  well  to  speak? 

Could  speech  be  clearer,  stronger,  tell  them  more 

Than  that  long  gaze  of  their  renouncing  love? 

They  passed  from  silence  hardly  knowing  how ; 

It  seemed  they  heard  each  other's  thought  before.] 

DON  SILVA. 

I  go  to  be  absolved,  to  have  my  life 
Washed  into  fitness  for  an  offering 
To  injured  Spain.     But  I  have  nought  to  give 
For  that  last  injury  to  her  I  loved 
Better  than  I  loved  Spain.     I  am  accurst 
Above  all  sinners,  being  made  the  curse 
Of  her  I  sinned  for.     Pardon?     Penitence? 
When  they  have  done  their  utmost,  still  beyond 
Out  of  their  reach  stands  Injury  unchanged 
And  changeless.      I  should  see  it  still  in  heaven — 
Out  of  my  reach,  for  ever  in  my  sight : 
Wearing  your  grief,  'twould  hide  the  smiling  seraphs. 
I  bring  no  puling  prayer,  Fedalma — ask 
]N"o  balm  of  pardon  that  may  soothe  my  soul 
For  others'  bleeding  wounds :  I  am  not  come 
To  say,  "  Forgive  me :  "  you  must  not  forgive, 
For  you  must  see  me  ever  as  I  am — 
Your  father's  .  .   . 
16 


242  POEMS  OF   GEORGE  ELIOT. 

FED  ALMA. 

Speak  it  not !     Calamity 

Comes  like  a  deluge  and  o'erfloods  our  crimes, 
Till  sin  is  hidden  in  woe.     You — I — we  two, 
Grasping  we  knew  not  what,  that  seemed  delight, 
Opened  the  sluices  of  that  deep. 

DON  SILVA. 

We  two?— 
Fedalma,  you  were  blameless,  helpless. 

FEDALMA. 

No! 

It  shall  not  be  that  you  did  aught  alone. 
For  when  we  loved  I  willed  to  reign  in  you, 
And  I  was  jealous  even  of  the  day 
If  it  could  gladden  you  apart  from  me. 
And  so,  it  must  be  that  I  shared  each  deed 
Our  love  was  root  of. 

Dox  SJLVA. 

Dear!  you  share  the  woe — 
Nay,  the  worst  dart  of  vengeance  fell  on  you. 

FEDALMA. 

Vengeance!     She  does  but  sweep  us  with  her  skirts — 
She  takes  large  space,  and  lies  a  baleful  light 
Revolving  with  long  years — sees  children's  children, 
Blights  them  in  their  prime.   .   .   .     Oh,  if  two   lovers 

leaned 

To  breathe  one  air  and  spread  a  pestilence, 
They  would  but  lie  two  livid  victims  dead 
Amid  the  city  of  the  dying.      We 
With  our  poor  petty  lives  have  strangled  one 
That  ages  watch  for  vainly. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  243 


DON  SILVA. 

Deep  despair 

Fills  all  your  tones  as  with  slow  agony. 
Speak  words  that  narrow  anguish  to  some  shape: 
Tell  me  what  dread  is  close  before  you? 

FED  ALMA. 

None. 

No  dread,  but  clear  assurance  of  the  end. 
My  father  held  within  his  mighty  frame 
A  people's  life:  great  futures  died  with  him 
Never  to  rise,  until  the  time  shall  ripe 
Some  other  hero  with  the  will  to  save 
The  outcast  Zincali. 

DON  SILVA. 

And  yet  their  shout — 
I  heard  it — sounded  as  the  plenteouus  rush 
Of  full-fed  sources,  shaking  their  wild  souls 
With  power  that  promised  sway. 

FED  ALMA. 

Ah,  yes,  that  shout 

Came  from  full  hearts :  they  meant  obedience. 
But  they  are  orphaned :  their  poor  childish  feet 
Are  vagabond  in  spite  of  love,  and  stray 
Forgetful  after  little  lures.     For  me — 
I  am  but  as  the  funeral  urn  that  bears 
The  ashes  of  a  leader. 

DON  SILVA. 

0  great  God! 

What  am  I  but  a  miserable  brand 
Lit  by  mysterious  wrath?     I  lie  cast  down 
A  blackened  branch  upon  the  desolate  ground 


214  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Where  once  I  kindled  ruin.     I  shall  drink 
No  cup  of  purest  water  but  will  taste 
Bitter  with  thy  lone  hopelessness,  Fedalma. 

FED  ALMA. 

Nay,  Silva,  think  of  me  as  one  who  sees 

A  light  serene  and  strong  on  one  sole  path 

Which  she  will  tread  till  death  .  .  . 

He  trusted  me,  and  I  will  keep  his  trust : 

My  life  shall  be  its  temple.     I  will  plant 

His  sacred  hope  within  the  sanctuary 

And  die  its  priestess — though  I  die  alone, 

A  hoary  woman  on  the  altar-step, 

Cold  'mid  cold  ashes.     That  is  my  chief  good. 

The  deepest  hunger  of  a  faithful  heart 

Is  faithfulness.     Wish  me  nought  else.     And  you- 

You  too  will  live.  .  .  . 

DON  SILVA. 

I  go  to  Rome,  to  seek 
The  right  to  use  my  knightly  sword  again ; 
The  right  to  fill  my  place  and  live  or  die 
So  that  all  Spaniards  shall  not  curse  my  name. 
I  sate  one  hour  upon  the  barren  rock 
And  longed  to  kill  myself;  but  then  I  said, 
I  will  not  leave  my  name  in  infamy, 
I  will  not  be  perpetual  rottenness 
Upon  the  Spaniard's  air.     If  I  must  sink 
At  last  to  hell,  I  will  not  take  my  stand 
Among  the  coward  crew  who  could  not  bear 
The  harm  themselves  had  done,  which  others  bore. 
My  young  life  yet  may  fill  some  fatal  breach, 
And  I  will  take  no  pardon,  not  my  own, 
Not  God's — no  pardon  idly  on  my  knees; 
But  it  shall  come  to  me  upon  my  feet 
And  in  the  thick  of  action,  and  each  deed 
That  carried  shame  and  wrong  shall  be  the  sting 
Tl:  it  drives  me  higher  up  the  steep  of  honor 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  245 

In  deeds  of  duteous  service  to  that  Spain 

Who  nourished  me  on  her  expectant  breast, 

The  heir  of  highest  gifts.     I  will  not  fling 

My  earthly  being  down  for  carrion 

To  fill  the  air  with  loathing :  I  will  be 

The  living  prey  of  some  fierce  noble  death 

That  leaps  upon  me  while  I  move.     Aloud 

I  said,  "  I  will  redeem  my  name, "  and  then — 

I  know  not  if  aloud :  I  felt  the  words 

Drinking  up  all  my  senses — "  She  still  lives. 

I  would  not  quit  the  dear  familiar  earth 

Where  both  of  us  behold  the  self -same  sun, 

Where  there  can  be  no  strangeness  'twixt  our  thoughts 

So  deep  as  their  communion."     Resolute 

I  rose  and  walked.  — Fedalma,  think  of  me 

As  one  who  will  regain  the  only  life 

Where  he  is  other  than  apostate — one 

Who  seeks  but  to  renew  and  keep  the  vows 

Of  Spanish  knight  and  noble.     But  the  breach 

Outside  those  vows — the  fatal  second  breach — 

Lies  a  dark  gulf  where  I  have  nought  to  cast, 

Not  even  expiation — poor  pretence, 

Which  changes  nought  but  what  survives  the  past, 

And  raises  not  the  dead.     That  deep  dark  gulf 

Divides  us. 

FED  ALMA. 

Yes,  for  ever.     We  must  walk 
Apart  unto  the  end.     Our  marriage  rite 
Is  our  resolve  that  we  will  each  be  true 
To  high  allegiance,  higher  than  our  love. 
Our  dear  young  love — its  breath  was  happiness ! 
But  it  had  grown  upon  a  larger  life 
Which  tore  its  roots  asunder.      We  rebelled — 
The  larger  life  subdued  us.     Yet  we  are  wed ; 
For  we  shall  carry  each  the  pressure  deep 
Of  the  other's  soul.     I  soon  shall  leave  the  shore. 
The  winds  to-night  will  bear  me  far  away. 
My  lord,  farewell ! 


246  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

He  did  not  say  "  Farewell." 
But  neither  knew  that  he  was  silent.     She, 
For  one  long  moment,  moved  not.     They  knew  nought 
Save  that  they  parted ;  for  their  mutual  gaze 
As  with  their  soul's  full  speech  forbade  their  hands 
To  seek  each  other — those  oft-clasping  hands 
Which  had  a  memory  of  their  own,  and  went 
Widowed  of  one  dear  touch  for  evermore. 
At  last  she  turned  and  with  swift  movement  passed, 
Beckoning  to  Hinda,  who  was  bending  low 
And  lingered  still  to  wash  her  shells,  but  soon 
Leaping  and  scampering  followed,  while  her  Queen 
Mounted  the  steps  again  and  took  her  place, 
Which  Juan  rendered  silently. 

And  now 

The  press  upon  the  quay  was  thinned ;  the  ground 
Was  cleared  of  cumbering  heaps,  the  eager  shouts 
Had  sunk,  and  left  a  murmur  more  restrained 
By  common  purpose.     All  the  men  ashore 
Were  gathering  into  ordered  companies, 
And  with  less  clamor  tilled  the  waiting  boats, 
As  if  the  speaking  light  commanded  them 
To  quiet  speed :  for  now  the  f arewell  glow 
Was  on  the  topmost  heights,  and  where  far  ships 
Were  southward  tending,  tranquil,  slow,  and  white 
Upon  the  luminous  meadow  toward  the  verge. 
The  quay  was  in  still  shadow,  and  the  boats 
Went  sombrely  upon  the  sombre  waves. 
Fedalma  watched  again ;  but  now  her  gaze 
Takes  in  the  eastward  bay,  where  that  small  bark 
Which  held  the  fisher-boy  floats  weightier 
With  one  more  life,  that  rests  upon  the  oar 
Watching  with  her.     He  would  not  go  away 
Till  she  was  gone;  he  would  not  turn  his  face 
Away  from  her  at  parting :  but  the  sea 
Should  widen  slowly  'twixt  their  seeking  eyes. 

The  time  was  coming.     Nadar  had  approached. 


THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.  247 

Was  the  Queen  ready?     Would  she  follow  now 

Her  father's  body?     For  the  largest  boat 

Was  waiting  at  the  quay,  the  last  strong  band 

Of  Zincali  had  ranged  themselves  in  lines 

To  guard  her  passage  and  to  follow  her. 

"  Yes,  I  am.  ready ;  "  and  with  action  prompt 

They  cast  aside  the  Gypsy's  wandering  tomb, 

And  fenced  the  space  from  curious  Moors  who  pressed 

To  see  Chief  Zarca's  coffin  as  it  lay. 

They  raised  it  slowly,  holding  it  aloft 

On  shoulders  proud  to  bear  the  heavy  load. 

Bound  on  the  coffin  lay  the  chieftain's  arms, 

His  Gypsy  garments  and  his  coat  of  mail. 

Fedalma  saw  the  burden  lifted  high, 

And  then  descending  followed.     All  was  still. 

The  Moors  aloof  could  hear  the  struggling  steps 

Beneath  the  lowered  burden  at  the  boat — 

'The  struggling  calls  subdued,  till  safe  released 

It  lay  within,  the  space  around  it  filled 

By  black-haired  Gypsies.     Then  Fedalma  stepped 

From  off  the  shore  and  saw  it  flee  away — 

The  land  that  bred  her  helping  the  resolve 

Which  exiled  her  for  ever. 

It  was  night 

Before  the  ships  weighed  anchor  and  gave  sail : 
Fresh  Night  emergent  in  her  clearness,  lit 
By  the  large  crescent  moon,  with  Hesperus, 
And  those  great  stars  that  lead  the  eager  host. 
Fedalma  stood  and  watched  the  little  bark 
Lying  jet-black  upon  moon- whitened  waves. 
Silva  was  standing  too.     He  too  divined 
A  steadfast  form  that  held  him  with  its  thought, 
.And  eyes  that  sought  him  vanishing :  he  saw 
The  waters  widen  slowly,  till  at  last 
.Straining  he  gazed,  and  knew  not  if  he  gazed 
On  aught  but  blackness  overhung  by  stars. 


NOTES. 


P.  32.     Cactus. 

THE  Indian  fig  (Opuntia),  like  the  other  Cactaceoe,  is  believed  to  have 
been  introduced  into  Europe  from  South  America ;  but  every  one  who 
has  been  in  the  south  of  Spain  will  understand  why  the  anachronism 
has  been  chosen. 

P.  117.     Marranos. 

The  name  given  by  the  Spanish  Jews  to  the  multitudes  of  their  race 
converted  to  Christianity  at  the  end  of  the  fourteenth  century  and  be- 
ginning of  the  fifteenth.  The  lofty  derivation  from  Maran-atha,  the 
Lord  cometh,  seems  hardly  called  for,  seeing  that  marrano  is  Spanish 
for  pig.  The  "  old  Christians  "  learned  to  use  the  word  as  a  term  of  con- 
tempt for  the  "new  Christians,"  or  converted  Jews  and  their  descend- 
ants ;  but  not  too  monotonously,  for  they  often  interchanged  it  with  the 
fine  old  crusted  opprobrium  of  the  name  Jew.  Still,  many  Marranos 
held  the  highest  secular  and  ecclesiastical  prizes  in  Spain,  and  were 
respected  accordingly. 

P.  133.     Celestial  Baron. 

The  Spaniards  conceived  their  patron  Santiago  (St.  James),  the  great 
captain  of  their  armies,  as  a  knight  and  baron :  to  them,  the  incongruity 
would  have  lain  in  conceiving  him  simply  as  a  Galilean  fisherman. 
And  their  legend  was  adopted  with  respect  by  devout  mediaeval  minds 
generally.  Dante,  in  an  elevated  passage  of  the  Paradiso — the  memor- 
able opening  of  Canto  xxv.— chooses  to  introduce  the  Apostle  James  as 
il  barone. 

"Indi  si  mosse  un  lume  verso  noi 

Di  quella  schiera,  ond  'usci  la  primizia 

Che  Iasci6  Cristo  de'  vicari  suoi. 

E  la  mia  Donna  piena  de  letizia 

Mi  disse :  Mira,  mira,  ecco  '1  barone 

Per  cui  laggiu  si  visita  Galizia." 

P.  134.     The  Seven  Parts. 

Las  Siete  Partidas  (The  Seven  Parts)  is  the  title  given  to  the  code  of 
laws  compiled 'under  Alfonso  the  Tenth,  who  reigned  in  the  latter  half 


NOTES.  249 

of  the  thirteenth  century — 1252-1284.  The  passage  in  the  text  is  trans- 
lated from  Partida  II.,  Ley  II.  The  whole  preamble  is  worth  citing  in 
its  old  Spanish : — 

"  Coino  deden  ser  escogidos  los  caballeros.^ 

"Antiguamiente  para  facer  cabal  leros  escogien  de  los  venadores  de 
monte,  que  son  homes  que  sufren  grande  laceria,  et  carpi  nteros,  et  fer- 
reros,  et  pedreros,  porque  usan  mucho  a  ferir  et  son  fuerte  de  manos ; 
et  otrosi  de  los  carniceros,  por  razon  que  usan  matar  las  cosas  vivas  et 
esparcer  la  sangre  dellas :  et  aun  cataban  otra  cosa  en  escogiendolos  que 
fuesen  bien  faccionadasde  meinbros  para  ser  recios,  et  fuertes  et  ligeros. 
Et  esta  manera  de  escoger  usaron  los  antiguos  muy  grant  tiempo  ;  mas 
porque  despues  vieron  muchas  vegadas  que  estos  atales  non  habiendo 
vergiienza  olvidaban  todas  estas  cosas  sobredichas,  et  en  logar  de  vincer 
BUS  enemigos  venpiense  ellos,  tovieroa  por  bien  los  sabidores  destas 
cosas  que  catasen  homes  para  esto  que  hobiesen  naturalmiente  en  si 
vergiienza.  Et  sobresto  dixo  un  sabio  que  habie  nombre  VEGECIO  que 
fab!6  de  la  <5rden  de  caballeria,  que  la  vergiienza  vieda  al  caballero  que 
non  fuya  de  la  batalla,  et  por  ende  ella  le  face  ser  vencedor  ;  ca  mucho 
tovieron  que  era  mejor  el  homo  flaco  et  sofridor,  que  el  fuerte  et  ligero 
para  foir.  Et  por  esto  sobre  todas  las  otras  cosas  cataron  que  fuesen 
homes  porque  se  guardasen  de  facer  cosa  por  que  podiesen  caer  en  ver- 
giienza :  et  porque  estos  fueron  escogidos  de  buenos  logares  et  algo,  que 
quieretantodecir  en  language  de  Espafia  como  bien,  por  eso  los  llamaron 
tijosdalgo,  que  muestra  atanto  como  fi jos  de  bien.  Et  en  algunos  otros 
logares  los  llamaron  gentiles,  et  tomaron.este  nombre  de  gentileza  que 
muestra  atanto  como  noblezade  bondat,  porque  los  gentiles  fueron  nobles 
homes  et  buenos,  et  vevieron  mas  ordenadamente  que  las  otras  gentes. 
Et  esta  gentileza  aviene  en  tres  maneres  ;  la  una  por  linage,  la  segunda 
por  saber,  et  la  tercera  por  bondat  de  armas  et  de  costumbres  et  de  ma- 
neras.  Et  comoquier  que  estos  que  la  ganan  por  su  sabidorfa  6  por  su 
bondat,  son  con  derecho  llamados  nobles  et  gentiles,  mayormiente  lo  son 
aquellos  que  la  ban  por  linage  antiguamiente,  et  facen  buenavida  porque 
les  viene  de  luene  como  por  heredat :  et  por  ende  son  mas  encargados  de 
facer  bien  et  guardarse  de  yerro  et  de  malestanza  ;  ca  non  tan  solamiente 
quando  lo  facen  resciben  dano  et  vergiienza  ellos  mismos,  ma  aun 
aquellos  onde  ellos  vienen." 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL. 


WHEN  Cain  was  driven  from  Jehovah's  land 

He  wandered  eastward,  seeking  some  far  strand 

Ruled  by  kind  gods  who  asked  no  offerings 

Save  pure  field-fruits,  as  aromatic  things,- 

To  feed  the  subtler  sense  of  frames  divine 

That  lived  on  fragrance  for  their  food  and  wine : 

Wild  joyous  gods,  who  winked  at  faults  and  folly, 

And  could  be  pitiful  and  melancholy. 

He  never  had  a  doubt  that  such  gods  were ; 

He  looked  within,  and  saw  them  mirrored  there. 

Some  think  he  came  at  last  to  Tartary, 

And  some  to  Ind;  but,  howsoe'er  it  be, 

His  staff  he  planted  where  sweet  waters  ran, 

And  in  that  home  of  Cain  the  Arts  began. 

Man' s  life  was  spacious  in  the  early  world : 
It  paused,  like  some  slow  ship  with  sail  unfurled 
Waiting  in  seas  by  scarce  a  wavelet  curled ; 
Beheld  the  slow  star-paces  of  the  skies, 
And  grew  from  strength  to  strength  through  centuries ; 
Saw  infant  trees  fill  out  their  giant  limbs, 
And  heard  a  thousand  times  the  sweet  birds'  marriaga 
hymns. 

In  Cain' s  young  city  none  had  heard  of  Death 
Save  him,  the  founder ;  and  it  was  his  faith 
That  here,  away  from  harsh  Jehovah's  law, 
Man  was  immortal,  since  no  halt  or  flaw 
In  Cain's  own  frame  betrayed  six  hundred  years, 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL.  251 

But  dark  as  pines  that  autumn  never  sears 
His  locks  thronged  backward  as  he  ran,  his  frame 
Rose  like  the  orbed  sun  each  morn  the  same, 
Lake-mirrored  to  his  gaze ;  and  that  red  brand, 
The  scorching  impress  of  Jehovah's  hand, 
Was  still  clear-edged  to  his  unwearied  eye, 
Its  secret  firm  in  time-fraught  memory. 
He  said,  "  My  happy  offspring  shall  not  know 
That  the  red  life  from  out  a  man  may  flow 
When  smitten  by  his  brother."     True,  his  race 
Bore  each  one  stamped  upon  his  new-born  face 
A  copy  of  the  brand  no  wit  less  clear ; 
But  every  mother  held  that  little  copy  dear. 

Thus  generations  in  glad  idlesse  throve, 
Nor  hunted  prey,  nor  with  each  other  strove ; 
For  clearest  springs  were  plenteous  in  the  land,. 
And  gourds  for  cups ;  the  ripe  fruits  sought  the  hand, 
Bending  the  laden  boughs  with  fragrant  gold; 
And  for  their  roofs  and  garments  wealth  untold 
Lay  everywhere  in  grasses  and  broad  leaves : 
They  labored  gently,  as  a  maid  who  weaves 
Her  hair  in  mimic  mats,  and  pauses  oft 
And  strokes  across  her  palm  the  tresses  soft, 
Then  peeps  to  watch  the  poised  butterfly, 
Or  little  burdened  ants  that  homeward  hie. 
Time  was  but  leisure  to  their  lingering  thought, 
There  was  no  need  for  haste  to  finish  aught ; 
But  sweet  beginnings  were  repeated  still 
Like  infant  babblings  that  no  task  fulfil ; 
For  love,  that  loved  not  change,  constrained  the  simple 
will. 

Till,  hurling  stones  in  mere  athletic  joy, 
Strong  Lamech  struck  and  killed  his  fairest  boy, 
And  tried  to  wake  him  with  the  tenderest  cries. 
And  fetched  and  held  before  the  glazed  eyes 
The  things  they  best  had  loved  to  look  upon ; 
But  never  glance  or  smile  or  sigh  he  won. 


252  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

The  generations  stood  around  those  twain 

Helplessly  gazing,  till  their  father  Cain 

Parted  the  press,  and  said,  "He  will  not  wake; 

This  is  the  endless  sleep,  and  we  must  make 

A  bed  deep  down  for  him  beneath  the  sod ; 

For  know,  my  sons,  there  is  a  mighty  God 

Angry  with  all  man's  race,  but  most  with  me. 

I  fled  from  out  His  land  in  vain! — 'tis  He 

Who  came  and  slew  the  lad,  for  He  has  found 

This  home  of  ours,  and  we  shall  all  be  bound 

By  the  harsh  bands  of  His  most  cruel  will, 

Which  any  moment  may  some  dear  one  kill. 

Nay,  though  we  live  for  countless  moons,  at  last 

We  and  all  ours  shall  die  like  summers  past. 

This  is  Jehovah's  will,  and  he  is  strong; 

I  thought  the  way  I  travelled  was  too  long 

For  Him  to  follow  me :  my  thought  was  vain ! 

He  walks  unseen,  but  leaves  a  track  of  pain, 

Pale  Death  His  footprint  is,  and  He  will  come  again !  " 

And  a  new  spirit  from  that  hour  came  o'er 

The  race  of  Cain :  soft  idlesse  was  no  more, 

But  even  the  sunshine  had  a  heart  of  care, 

Smiling  with  hidden  dread — a  mother  fair 

Who  folding  to  her  breast  a  dying  child 

Beams  with  feigned  joy  that  but  makes  sadness  mild. 

Death  was  now  lord  of  Life,  and  at  his  word 

Time,  vague  as  air  before,  new  terrors  stirred, 

With  measured  wing  now  audibly  arose 

Throbbing  through  all  things  to  some  unknown  close. 

Now  glad  Content  by  clutching  Haste  was  torn, 

And  Work  grew  eager,  and  Device  was  born. 

It  seemed  the  light  was  never  loved  before, 

Now  each  man  said,  "  'Twill  go  and  come  no  more." 

No  budding  branch,  no  pebble  from  the  brook, 

No  form,  no  shadow,  but  new  dearness  took 

From  the  one  thought  that  life  must  have  an  end} 

And  the  last  parting  now  began  to  send 

Diffusive  dread  through  love  and  wedded  bliss, 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL.          253 

Thrilling  them  into  finer  tenderness. 

Then  Memory  disclosed  her  face  divine, 

That  like  the  calm  nocturnal  lights  doth  shine 

Within  the  soul,  and  shows  the  sacred  graves, 

And  shows  the  presence  that  no  sunlight  craves, 

No  space,  no  warmth,  but  moves  among  them  allj 

Gone  and  yet  here,  and  coming  at  each  call, 

With  ready  voice  and  eyes  that  understand, 

And  lips  that  ask  a  kiss,  and  dear  responsive  hand. 

Thus  to  Cain's  race  death  was  tear-watered  seed 

Of  various  life  and  action- shaping  need. 

But  chief  the  sons  of  Lamech  felt  the  stings 

Of  new  ambition,  and  the  force  that  springs 

In  passion  beating  on  the  shores  of  fate. 

They  said,  "  There  comes  a  night  when  all  too  late 

The  mind  shall  long  to  prompt  the  achieving  hand, 

The  eager  thought  behind  closed  portals  stand, 

And  the  last  wishes  to  the  mute  lips  press 

Buried  ere  death  in  silent  helplessness. 

Then  while  the  soul  its  way  with  sound  can  cleave, 

And  while  the  arm  is  strong  to  strike  and  heave, 

Let  soul  and  arm  give  shape  that  will  abide 

And  rule  above  our  graves,  and  power  divide 

With  that  great  god  of  day,  whose  rays  must  bend 

As  we  shall  make  the  moving  shadows  tend. 

Come,  let  us  fashion  acts  that  are  to  be, 

When  we  shall  lie  in  darkness  silently, 

As  our  young  brother  doth,  whom  yet  we  see 

Fallen  and  slain,  but  reigning  in  our  will 

By  that  one  image  of  him  pale  and  still." 

For  Lamech's  sons  were  heroes  of  their  race : 

Jabal,  the  eldest,  bore  upon  his  face 

The  look  of  that  calm  river-god,  the  Nile, 

Mildly  secure  in  power  that  needs  not  guile. 

But  Tubal-Cain  was  restless  as  the  fire 

That  glows  and  spreads  and  leaps  from  high  to  higher 

Where'er  is  aught  to  seize  or  to  subdue ; 

Strong  as  a  storm  he  lifted  or  o'erthrew, 


264  POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

His  urgent  limbs  like  rounded  granite  grew, 

Such  granite  as  the  plunging  torrent  wears 

And  roaring  rolls  around  through  countless  years. 

But  strength  that  still  on  movement  must  be  fed, 

Inspiring  thought  of  change,  devices  bred, 

And  urged  his  mind  through  earth  and  air  to  rove 

For  force  that  he  could  conquer  if  he  strove, 

For  lurking  forms  that  might  new  tasks  fulfil 

And  yield  unwilling  to  his  stronger  will. 

Such  Tubal-Cain.     But  Jubal  had  a  frame 

Fashioned  to  finer  senses,  which  became 

A  yearning  for  some  hidden  soul  of  things, 

Some  outward  touch  complete  on  inner  springs 

That  vaguely  moving  bred  a  lonely  pain, 

A  want  that  did  but  stronger  grow  with  gain 

Of  all  good  else,  as  spirits  might  be  sad 

For  lack  of  speech  to  tell  us  they  are  glad. 

Now  Jabal  learned  to  tame  the  lowing  kine, 

And  from  their  udders  drew  the  snow-white  wine 

That  stirs  the  innocent  joy,  and  makes  the  stream 

Of  elemental  life  with  fulness  teem ; 

The  star-browed  calves  he  nursed  with  feeding  hand, 

And  sheltered  them,  till  all  the  little  band 

Stood  mustered  gazing  at  the  sunset  way 

Whence  he  would  come  with  store  at  close  of  day. 

He  soothed  the  silly  sheep  with  friendly  tone 

And  reared  their  staggering  lambs  that,  older  grown, 

Followed  his  steps  with  sense-taught  memory ; 

Till  he,  their  shepherd,  could  their  leader  be 

And  guide  them  through  the  pastures  as  he  would, 

With  sway  that  grew  from  ministry  of  good. 

He  spread  his  tents  upon  the  grassy  plain 

Which,  eastward  widening  like  the  open  main, 

Showed  the  first  whiteness  'neath  the  morning  star; 

Near  him  his  sister,  deft,  as  women  are, 

Plied  her  quick  skill  in  sequence  to  his  thought 

Till  the  hid  treasures  of  the  milk  she  caught 

Revealed  like  pollen  'mid  the  petals  white, 

The  golden  pollen,  virgin  to  the  light. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL.  255 

Even  the  she-wolf  with  young,  on  rapine  bent, 
He  caught  and  tethered  in  his  mat-walled  tent, 
And  cherished  all  her  little  sharp -nosed  young 
Till  the  small  race  with  hope  and  terror  clung 
About  his  footsteps,  till  each  new-reared  brood, 
Remoter  from  the  memories  of  the  wood, 
More  glad  discerned  their  common  home  with  man. 
This  was  the  work  of  Jabal :  he  began 
The  pastoral  life,  and,  sire  of  joys  to  be, 
Spread  the  sweet  ties  that  bind  the  family 
O'er  dear  dumb  souls  that  thrilled  at  man's  caress, 
And  shared  his  pains  with  patient  helpfulness. 

But  Tubal-Cain  had  caught  and  yoked  the  fire, 

Yoked  it  with  stones  that  bent  the  flaming  spire 

And  made  it  roar  in  prisoned  servitude 

Within  the  furnace,  till  with  force  subdued 

It  changed  all  forms  he  willed  to  work  upon, 

Till  hard  from  soft,  and  soft  from  hard,  he  won. 

The  pliant  clay  he  moulded  as  he  would, 

And  laughed  with  joy  when  'mid  the  heat  it  stood 

Shaped  as  his  hand  had  chosen,  while  the  mass 

That  from  his  hold,  dark,  obstinate,  would  pass, 

He  drew  all  glowing  from  the  busy  heat, 

All  breathing  as  with  life  that  he  could  beat 

With  thundering  hammer,  making  it  obey 

His  will  creative,  like  the  pale  soft  clay. 

Each  day  he  wrought  and  better  than  he  planned, 

Shape  breeding  shape  beneath  his  restless  hand. 

(The  soul  without  still  helps  the  soul  within, 

And  its  deft  magic  ends  what  we  begin. ) 

Nay,  in  his  dreams  his  hammer  he  would  wield 

And  seem  to  see  a  myriad  types  revealed, 

Then  spring  with  wandering  triumphant  cry, 

And,  lest  the  inspiring  vision  should  go  by, 

Would  rush  to  labor  with  that  plastic  zeal 

Which  all  the  passion  of  our  life  can  steal 

For  force  to  work  with.     Each  day  saw  the  birth 

Of  various  forms  which,  flung  upon  the  earth, 


256  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Seemed  harmless  toys  to  cheat  the  exacting  hour, 
But  were  as  seeds  instinct  with  hidden  power. 
The  axe,  the  club,  the  spiked  wheel,  the  chain, 
Held  silently  the  shrieks  and  moans  of  pain ; 
And  near  them  latent  lay  in  share  and  spade, 
In  the  strong  bar,  the  saw,  and  deep-curved  blade, 
Glad  voices  of  the  hearth  and  harvest-home, 
The  social  good,  and  all  earth's  joy  to  come. 
Thus  to  mixed  ends  wrought  Tubal ;  and  they  say, 
Some  things  he  made  have  lasted  to  this  day ; 
As,  thirty  silver  pieces  that  were  found 
By  Noah's  children  buried  in  the  ground. 
He  made  them  from  mere  hunger  of  device, 
Those  small  white  discs ;  but  they  became  the  price 
The  traitor  Judas  sold  his  Master  for ; 
And  men  still  handling  them  in  peace  and  war 
Catch  foul  disease,  that  comes  as  appetite, 
And  lurks  and  clings  as  withering,  damning  blight. 
But  Tubal- Cain  wot  not  of  treachery, 
Nor  greedy  lust,  nor  any  ill  to  be, 
Save  the  one  ill  of  sinking  into  nought, 
Banished  from  action  and  act-shaping  thought. 
He  was  the  sire  of  swift-transforming  skill, 
Which  arms  for  conquest  man's  ambitious  will; 
And  round  him  gladly,  as  his  hammer  rung, 
Gathered  the  elders  and  the  growing  young : 
These  handled  vaguely  and  those  plied  the  tools, 
Till,  happy  chance  begetting  conscious  rules, 
The  home  of  Cain  with  industry  was  rife, 
And  glimpses  of  a  strong  persistent  life, 
Panting  through  generations  as  one  breath, 
And  filling  with  its  soul  the  blank  of  death. 

Jubal,  too,  watched  the  hammer,  till  his  eyes, 

No  longer  following  its  fall  or  rise, 

Seemed  glad  with  something  that  they  could  not  see, 

But  only  listened  to — some  melody, 

Wherein  dumb  longings  inward  speech  had  found, 

Won  from  the  common  store  of  struggling  sound. 


THE  LEGEND  OP  JUBAL.  257 

Theu,  as  the  metal  shapes  more  various  grew, 

And,  hurled  upon  each  other,  resonance  drew, 

Each  gave  new  tones,  the  revelations  dim 

Of  some  external  soul  that  spoke  for  him : 

The  hollow  vessel's  clang,  the  clash,  the  boom, 

Like  light  that  makes  wide  spiritual  room 

And  skyey  spaces  in  the  spaceless  thought, 

To  Jubal  such  enlarged  passion  brought 

That  love,  hope,  rage,  and  all  experience, 

Were  fused  in  vaster  being,  fetching  thence 

Concords  and  discords,  cadences  and  cries 

That  seemed  from  some  world-shrouded  soul  to  rise, 

Some  rapture  more  intense,  some  mightier  rage, 

Some  living  sea  that  burst  the  bounds  of  man's  brief  age. 

Then  with  such  blissful  trouble  and  glad  care 
For  growth  within  unborn  as  mothers  bear, 
To  the  far  woods  he  wandered,  listening, 
And  heard  the  birds  their  little  stories  sing 
In  notes  whose  rise  and  fall  seemed  melted  speech — 
Melted  with  tears,  smiles,  glances — that  can  reach 
More  quickly  through  our  frame's  deep-winding  night, 
And  without  thought  raise  thought's  best  fruit,  delight. 
Pondering,  he  sought  his  home  again  and  heard 
The  fluctuant  changes  of  the  spoken  word : 
The  deep  remonstrance  and  the  argued  want, 
Insistent  first  in  close  monotonous  chant, 
Next  leaping  upward  to  defiant  stand 
Or  downward  beating  like  the  resolute  hand ; 
The  mother's  call,  the  children's  answering  cry, 
The  laugh's  light  cataract  tumbling  from  on  high; 
The  suasive  repetitions  Jabal  taught, 
That  timid  browsing  cattle  homeward  brought; 
The  clear-winged  fugue  of  echoes  vanishing ; 
And  through  them  all  the  hammer's  rhythmic  ring. 
Jubal  sat  lonely,  all  around  was  dim, 
Yet  his  face  glowed  with  light  revealed  to  him : 
For  as  the  delicate  stream  of  odor  wakes 
The  thought-wed  sentience  and  some  image  makes 
17 


258  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

From  out  the  mingled  fragments  of  the  past, 

Finely  compact  in  wholeness  that  will  last, 

So  streamed  as  from  the  body  of  each  sound 

Subtler  pulsations,  swift  as  warmth,  which  found 

All  prisoned  germs  and  all  their  powers  unbound, 

Till  thought  self-luminous  flamed  from  memory, 

And  in  creative  vision  wandered  free. 

Then  Jubal,  standing,  rapturous  arms  upraised, 

And  on  the  dark  with  eager  eyes  he  gazed, 

As  had  some  manifested  god  been  there. 

It  was  his  thought  he  saw :  the  presence  fair 

Of  unachieved  achievement,  the  high  task, 

The  struggling  unborn  spirit  that  doth  ask 

With  irresistible  cry  for  blood  and  breath, 

Till  feeding  its  great  life  we  sink  in  death. 

He  said,  "  Were  now  those  mighty  tones  and  cries 

That  from  the  giant  soul  of  earth  arise, 

Those  groans  of  some  great  travail  heard  from  far, 

Some  power  at  wrestle  with  the  things  that  are, 

Those  sounds  which  vary  with  the  varying  form 

Of  clay  and  metal,  and  in  sightless  swarm 

Fill  the  wide  space  with  tremors :  were  these  wed 

To  human  voices  with  such  passion  fed 

As  does  but  glimmer  in  our  common  speech, 

But  might  flame  out  in  tones  whose  changing  reach, 

Surpassing  meagre  need,  informs  the  sense 

With  fuller  union,  finer  difference — 

Were  this  great  vision,  now  obscurely  bright 

As  morning  hills  that  melt  in  new-poured  light, 

Wrought  into  solid  form  and  living  sound, 

Moving  with  ordered  throb  and  sure  rebound, 

Then — Nay,  I,  Jubal  will  that  work  begin ! 

The  generations  of  our  race  shall  win 

New  life,  that  grows  from  out  the  heart  of  this, 

As  spring  from  winter,  or  as  lovers'  bliss 

From  out  the  dull  unknown  of  unwaked  energies." 

Thus  he  resolved,  and  in  the  soul-fed  light 
Of  coming  ages  waited  through  the  night, 


'  Then  Jubal  poured  his  triumph  in  a  song."— Page  259. 

Eliot— Legend  of  Jubal. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL.  259 

Watching  for  that  near  dawn  whose  chiller  ray 
Showed  but  the  unchanged  world  of  yesterday ; 
Where  all  the  order  of  his  dream  divine 
Lay  like  Olympian  forms  within  the  mine; 
Where  fervor  that  could  fill  the  earthly  round 
With  thronged  joys  of  form-begotten  sound 
Must  shrink  intense  within  the  patient  power 
That  lonely  labors  through  the  niggard  hour. 
Such  patience  have  the  heroes  who  begin, 
Sailing  the  first  to  lands  which  others  win. 
Jubal  must  dare  as  great  beginners  dare, 
Strike  form's  first  way  in  matter  rude* and  bare, 
And,  yearning  vaguely  toward  the  plenteous  quire 
Of  the  world' s  harvest,  make  one  poor  small  lyre. 
He  made  it,  and  from  out  its  measured  frame 
Drew  the  harmonic  soul,  whose  answers  came 
With  guidance  sweet  and  lessons  of  delight 
Teaching  to  ear  and  hand  the  blissful  Eight, 
Where  strictest  law  is  gladness  to  the  sense 
And  all  desire  bends  toward  obedience. 

Then  Jubal  poured  his  triumph  in  a  song — 

The  rapturous  word  that  rapturous  notes  prolong 

As  radiance  streams  from  smallest  things  that  burn, 

Or  thought  of  loving  into  love  doth  turn. 

And  still  his  lyre  gave  companionship 

In  sense-taught  concert  as  of  lip  with  lip. 

Alone  amid  the  hills  at  first  he  tried 

His  winged  song ;  then  with  adoring  pride 

And  bridegroom's  joy  at  leading  forth  his  bride, 

He  said,  "  This  wonder  which  my  soul  hath  found, 

This  heart  of  music  in  the  might  of  sound, 

Shall  forthwith  be  the  share  of  all  our  race 

And  like  the  morning  gladden  common  space : 

The  song  shall  spread  and  swell  as  rivers  do, 

And  I  will  teach  otir  youth  with  skill  to  woo 

This  living  lyre,  to  know  its  secret  will, 

Its  fine  division  of  the  good  and  ill. 


260  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

So  shall  men  call  me  sire  of  harmony, 

And  where  great  Song  is,  there  my  life  shall  be." 

Thus  glorying  as  a  god  beneficent, 

Forth  from  his  solitary  joy  he  went 

To  bless  mankind.     It  was  at  evening, 

When  shadows  lengthen  from  each  westward  thing, 

When  imminence  of  change  makes  sense  more  fine 

And  light  seems  holier  in  its  grand  decline. 

The  fruit-trees  wore  their  studded  coronal, 

Earth  and  her  children  were  at  festival, 

Glowing  as  with  one  heart  and  one  consent — 

Thought,  love,  trees,  rocks,  in  sweet  warm  radiance  blent 

The  tribe  of  Cain  was  resting  on  the  ground, 

The  various  ages  wreathed  in  one  broad  round. 

Here  lay,  while  children  peeped  o'er  his  huge  thighs, 

The  sinewy  man  embrowned  by  centuries ; 

Here  the  broad-bosomed  mother  of  the  strong 

Looked,  like  Demeter,  placid  o'er  the  throng 

Of  young  lithe  forms  whose  rest  was  movement  too — 

Tricks,  prattle,  nods,  and  laughs  that  lightly  flew, 

And  swayings  as  of  flower-beds  where  Love  blew. 

For  all  had  feasted  well  upon  the  flesh 

Of  juicy  fruits,  on  nuts,  and  honey  fresh, 

And  now  their  wine  was  health-bred  merriment, 

Which  through  the  generations  circling  went, 

Leaving  none  sad,  for  even  father  Cain 

Smiled  as  a  Titan  might,  despising  pain. 

Jabal  sat  climbed  on  by  a  playful  ring 

Of  children,  lambs  and  whelps,  whose  gambolling, 

With  tiny  hoofs,  paws,  hands,  and  dimpled  feet, 

Made  barks,  bleats,  laughs,  in  pretty  hubbub  meet. 

But  Tubal's  hammer  rang  from  far  away, 

Tubal  alone  would  keep  no  holiday, 

His  furnace  must  not  slack  for  any  feast, 

For  of  all  hardship  work  he  counted  least ; 

He  scorned  all  rest  but  sleep,  where  every  dream 

Made  his  repose  more  potent  action  seem. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL.  .    261 

Yet  with  health's  nectar  some  strange  thirst  was  blent, 

The  fateful  growth,  the  unnamed  discontent, 

The  inward  shaping  toward  some  unborn  power, 

Some  deeper-breathing  act,  the  being's  flower. 

After  all  gestures,  words,  and  speech  of  eyes, 

The  soul  had  more  to  tell,  and  broke  in  sighs. 

Then  from  the  east,  with  glory  on  his  head 

Such  as  low-slanting  beams  on  corn-waves  spread, 

Came  Jubal  with  his  lyre:  there  'mid  the  throng, 

Where  the  blank  space  was,  poured  a  solemn  song, 

Touching  his  lyre  to  full  harmonic  throb 

And  measured  pulse,  with  cadences  that  sob, 

Exult  and  cry,  and  search  the  inmost  deep 

Where  the  dark  sources  of  new  passion  sleep. 

Joy  took  the  air,  and  took  each  breathing  soul, 

Embracing  them  in  one  entranced  whole, 

Yet  thrilled  each  varying  frame  to  various  ends, 

As  Spring  new-waking  through  the  creature  sends 

Or  rage  or  tenderness ;  more  plenteous  life 

Here  breeding  dread,  and  there  a  fiercer  strife. 

He  who  had  lived  through  twice  three  centuries, 

Whose  months  monotonous,  like  trees  on  trees 

In  hoary  forests,  stretched  a  backward  maze, 

Dreamed  himself  dimly  through  the  travelled  days 

Till  in  clear  light  he  paused,  and  felt  the  sun 

That  warmed  him  when  he  was  a  little  one ; 

Felt  that  true  heaven,  the  recovered  past, 

The  dear  small  Known  amid  the  Unknown  vast, 

And  in  that  heaven  wept.     But  younger  limbs 

Thrilled  toward  the  future,  that  bright  land  which  swims 

In  western  glory,  isles  and  streams  and  bays, 

Where  hidden  pleasures  float  in  golden  haze. 

And  in  all  these  the  rhythmic  influence, 

Sweetly  o'ercharging  the  delighted  sense, 

Flowed  out  in  movements,  little  waves  that  spread 

Enlarging,  till  in  tidal  union  led 

The  youths  and  maidens  both  alike  long-tressed, 

By  grace-inspiring  melody  possessed. 

Rose  in  slow  dance,  with  beauteous  floating  swerve 


262  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT 

Of  limbs  and  hair,  and  many  a  melting  curve 

Of  ringed  feet  swayed  by  each  close-linked  palm : 

Then  Jubal  poured  more  rapture  in  his  psalm, 

The  dance  fired  music,  music  fired  the  dance, 

The  glow  diffusive  lit  each  countenance, 

Till  all  the  gazing  elders  rose  and  stood 

With  glad  yet  awful  shock  of  that  mysterious  good. 

Even  Tubal  caught  the  sound,  and  wondering  came, 
Urging  his  sooty  bulk  like  smoke-wrapt  flame 
Till  he  could  see  his  brother  with  the  lyre, 
The  work  for  which  he  lent  his  furnace-fire 
And  diligent  hammer,  witting  nought  of  this — 
This  power  in  metal  shape  which  made  strange  bliss, 
Entering  within  him  like  a  dream  full-fraught 
With  new  creations  finished  in  a  thought. 

The  sun  had  sunk,  but  music  still  was  there, 

And  when  this  ceased,  still  triumph  filled  the  air : 

It  seemed  the  stars  were  shining  with  delight 

And  that  no  night  was  ever  like  this  night. 

All  clung  with  praise  to  Jubal :  some  besought 

That  he  would  teach  them  his  new  skill ;  some  caught, 

Swiftly  as  smiles  are  caught  in  looks  that  meet, 

The  tone's  melodic  change  and  rhythmic  beat: 

'Twas  easy  following  where  invention  trod — 

All  eyes  can  see  when  light  flows  out  from  God. 

And  thus  did  Jubal  to  his  race  reveal 
Music  their  larger  soul,  where  woe  and  weal 
Filling  the  resonant  chords,  the  song,  the  dance, 
Moved  with  a  wider-winged  utterance. 
Now  many  a  lyre  was  fashioned,  .many  a  song 
Raised  echoes  new,  old  echoes  to  prolong, 
Till  things  of  Jubal' s  making  were  so  rife, 
"Hearing  myself,"  he  said,  "hems  in  my  life, 
And  I  will  get  me  to  some  far-off  land, 
Where  higher  mountains  under  heaven  stand 
And  touch  the  blue  at  rising  of  the  stars, 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL.          263 

Whose  song  they  hear  where  no  rough  mingling  mars 
The  great  clear  voices.     Such  lands  there  must  be, 
Where  varying  forms  make  varying  symphony — 
Where  other  thunders  roll  amid  the  hills, 
Some  mightier  winl  a  mightier  forest  fills 
With  other  strains  through  other-shapen  boughs ; 
Where  bees  and  birds  and  beasts  that  hunt  or  browse 
Will  teach  me  songs  I  know  not.     Listening  there, 
My  life  shall  grow  like  trees  both  tall  and  fair 
That  rise  and  spread  and  bloom  toward  fuller  fruit  each 
year. " 

He  took  a  raft,  and  travelled  with  the  stream 

Southward  for  many  a  league,  till  he  might  deem 

He  saw  at  last  the  pillars  of  the  sky, 

Beholding  mountains  whose  white  majesty 

Rushed  through  him  as  new  awe,  and  made  new  song 

That  swept  with  fuller  wave  the  chords  along, 

Weighting  his  voice  with  deep  religious  chime, 

The  iteration  of  slow  chant  sublime. 

It  was  the  region  long  inhabited 

By  all  the  race  of  Seth ;  and  Jubal  said  : 

"Here  have  I  found  my  thirsty  soul's  desire, 

Eastward  the  hills  touch  heaven,  and  evening's  fire 

Flames  through  deep  waters;  I  will  take  my  rest, 

And  feed  anew  from  my  great  mother's  breast, 

The  sky-clasped  Earth,  whose  voices  nurture  me 

As  the  flowers'  sweetness  doth  the  honey-bee." 

He  lingered  wandering  for  many  an  age, 

And,  sowing  music,  made  high  heritage 

For  generations  far  beyond  the  Flood — 

For  the  poor  late-begotten  human  brood 

Born  to  life's  weary  brevity  and  perilous  good. 

And  ever  as  he  travelled  he  would  climb 
The  farthest  mountain,  yet  the  heavenly  chime, 
The  mighty  tolling  of  the  far-off  spheres 
Beating  their  pathway,  never  touched  his  ears. 
But  wheresoe'er  he  rose  the  heavens  rose, 


264  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

And  the  far-gazing  mountain  could  disclose 
Nought  but  a  wider  earth ;  until  one  height 
Showed  him  the  ocean  stretched  in  liquid  light, 
And  he  could  hear  its  multitudinous  roar,|j 
Its  plunge  and  hiss  upon  the  pebbled  shore : 
Then  Jubal  silent  sat,  and  touched  his  lyre  no  more. 

He  thought,  "  The  world  is  great,  but  I  am  weak, 
And  where  the  sky  bends  is  no  solid  peak 
To  give  me  footing,  but  instead,  this  main — 
Myriads  of  maddened  horses  thundering  o'er  the  plain. 

"New  voices  come  to  me  where'er  I  roam, 

My  heart  too  widens  with  its  widening  home : 

But  song  grows  weaker,  and  the  heart  must  break 

For  lack  of  voice  or  fingers  that  can  wake 

The  lyre's  full  answer;  nay,  its  chords  were  all 

Too  few  to  meet  the  growing  spirit's  call. 

The  former  songs  seem  little,  yet  no  more 

Can  soul,  hand,  voice,  with  interchanging  lore 

Tell  what  the  earth  is  saying  unto  me : 

The  secret  is  too  great,  I  hear  confusedly. 

"  No  farther  will  I  travel :  once  again 

My  brethren  I  will  see,  and  that  fair  plain 

Where  I  and  Song  were  born.     There  fresh-voiced  youth 

Will  pour  my  strains  with  all  the  early  truth 

Which  now  abides  not  in  my  voice  and  hands, 

But  only  in  the  soul,  the  will  that  stands 

Helpless  to  move.     My  tribe  remembering 

Will  cry  '  'Tis  he! '  and  run  to  greet  me,  welcoming." 

The  way  was  weary.     Many  a  date-palm  grew, 
And  shook  out  clustered  gold  against  the  blue, 
While  Jubal,  guided  by  the  steadfast  spheres, 
Sought  the  dear  home  of  those  first  eager  years, 
When,  with  fresh  vision  fed,  the  fuller  will 
Took  living  outward  shape  in  pliant  skill; 
For  still  he  hoped  to  find  the  former  things, 
And  the  warm  gladness  recognition  brings. 


THE  LEGEND  OP  JUBAL.  265 

His  footsteps  erred  among  the  mazy  woods 

And  long  illusive  sameness  of  the  floods, 

Winding  and  wandering.     Through  far  regions,  strange 

With  Gentile  homes  and  faces,  did  he  range, 

And  left  his  music  in  their  memory, 

And  left  at  last,  when  nought  besides  would  free 

His  homeward  steps  from  clinging  hands  and  cries, 

The  ancient  lyre.     And  now  in  ignorant  eyes 

No  sign  remained  of  Jubal,  Lamech's  son, 

That  mortal  frame  wherein  was  first  begun 

The  immortal  life  of  song.     His  withered  brow 

Pressed  over  eyes  that  held  no  lightning  now, 

His  locks  streamed  whiteness  on  the  hurrying  air, 

The  unresting  soul  had  worn  itself  quite  bare 

Of  beauteous  token,  as  the  outworn  might 

Of  oaks  slow  dying,  gaunt  in  summer's  light. 

His  full  deep  voice  toward  thinnest  treble  ran : 

He  was  the  rune-writ  story  of  a  man. 

And  so  at  last  he  neared  the  well-known  land, 
Could  see  the  hills  in  ancient  order  stand 
With  friendly  faces  whose  familiar  gaze 
Looked  through  the  sunshine  of  his  childish  days; 
Knew  the  deep-shadowed  folds  of  hanging  woods, 
And  seemed  to  see  the  self-same  insect  broods 
Whirling  and  quivering  o'er  the  flowers — to  hear 
The  self-same  cuckoo  making  distance  near. 
Yea,  the  dear  Earth,  with  mother's  constancy, 
Met  and  embraced  him,  and  said,  "  Thou  art  he! 
This  was  thy  cradle,  here  my  breast  was  thine, 
Where  feeding,  thou  didst  all  thy  life  entwine 
With  my  sky- wedded  life  in  heritage  divine." 

But  wending  ever  through  the  watered  plain, 

Firm  not  to  rest  save  in  the  home  of  Cain, 

He  saw  dread  Change,  with  dubious  face  and  cold 

That  never  kept  a  welcome  for  the  old, 

Like  some  strange  heir  upon  the  hearth,  arise 

Saying  "  This  home  is  mine."     He  thought  his  eyes 

Mocked  all  deep  memories,  as  things  new  made, 


266  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Usurping  sense,  make  old  things  shrink  and  fade 

And  seem  ashamed  to  met  the  staring  day. 

His  memory  saw  a  small  foot-trodden  way, 

His  eyes  a  broad  far-stretching  paven  road 

Bordered  with  many  a  tomb  and  fair  abode ; 

The  little  city  that  once  nestled  low 

As  buzzing  groups  about  some  central  glow, 

Spread  like  a  murmuring  crowd  o'er  plain  and  steep, 

Or  monster  huge  in  heavy-breathing  sleep. 

His  heart  grew  faint,  and  tremblingly  he  sank 

Close  by  the  wayside  on  a  weed-grown  bank, 

Not  far  from  where  a  new-raised  temple  stood, 

Sky^roofed,  and  fragrant  with  wrought  cedar  wood. 

The  morning  sun  was  high ;  his  rays  fell  hot 

On  this  hap-chosen,  dusty,  common  spot, 

On  the  dry-withered  grass  and  withered  man. 

That  wondrous  frame  where  melody  began 

Lay  as  a  tomb  defaced  that  no  eye  cared  to  scan. 

But  while  he  sank  far  music  reached  his  ear. 

He  listened  until  wonder  silenced  fear 

And  gladness  wonder ;  for  the  broadening  stream 

Of  sound  advancing  was  his  early  dream, 

Brought  like  fulfilment  of  forgotten  prayer ; 

As  if  his  soul,  breathed  out  upon  the  air, 

Had  held  the  invisible  seeds  of  harmony 

Quick  with  the  various  strains  of  life  to  be. 

He  listened :  the  sweet  mingled  difference 

With  charm  alternate  took  the  meeting  sense ; 

Then  bursting  like  some  shield-broad  lily  red, 

Sudden  and  near  the  trumpet's  notes  out-spread, 

And  soon  his  eyes  could  see  the  metal  flower, 

Shining  upturned,  out  on  the  morning  pour 

It3  incense  audible ;  could  see  a  train 

From  out  the  street  slow-winding  on  the  plain 

With  lyres  and  cymbals,  flutes  and  psalteries, 

While  men,  youths,  maids,  in  concert  sang  to  these 

With  various  throat,  or  in  succession  poured, 

Or  in  full  volume  mingled.     But  one  word 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL.  267 

Ruled  each  recurrent  rise  and  answering  fall, 

As  when  the  multitudes  adoring  call 

On  some  great  name  divine,  their  common  soul, 

The  common  need,  love,  joy,  that  knits  them  in  one  whole. 

The  word  was  "  Jubal !"..."  Jubal "  filled  the  air 

And  seemed  to  ride  aloft,  a  spirit  there, 

Creator  of  the  quire,  the  full-fraught  strain 

That  grateful  rolled  itself  to  him  again. 

The  aged  man  adust  upon  the  bank — 

Whom  no  eye  saw — at  first  with  rapture  drank 

The  bliss  of  music,  then,  with  swelling  heart, 

Felt,  this  was  his  own  being's  greater  part, 

The  universal  joy  once  born  in  him. 

But  when  the  train,  with  living  face  and  limb 

And  vocal  breath,  came  nearer  and  more  near, 

The  longing  grew  that  they  should  hold  him  dear; 

Him,  Lamech's  son,  whom  all  their  fathers  knew, 

The  breathing  Jubal,  him,  to  whom  their  love  was  due. 

All  was  forgotten  but  the  burning  need 

To  claim  his  fuller  self,  to  claim  the  deed 

That  lived  away  from  him,  and  grew  apart, 

While  he  as  from  a  tomb,  with  lonely  heart, 

Warmed  by  no  meeting  glance,  no  hand  that  pressed, 

Lay  chill  amid  the  life  his  life  had  blessed. 

What  though  his  song  should  spread  from  man's  small  race 

Out  through  the  myriad  worlds  that  people  space, 

And  make  the  heavens  one  joy-diffusing  quire? — 

Still  'mid  that  vast  would  throb  the  keen  desire 

Of  this  poor  aged  flesh,  this  eventide, 

This  twilight  soon  in  darkness  to  subside, 

This  little  pulse  of  self  that,  having  glowed 

Through  thrice  three  centuries,  and  divinely  strowed 

The  light  of  music  through  the  vague  of  sound, 

Ached  with  its  smallness  still  in  good  that  had  no  bound. 

For  no  eye  saw  him,  while  with  loving  pride 
Each  voice  with  each  in  praise  of  Jubal  vied. 
Must  he  in  conscious  trance,  dumb,  helpless  lie 


268  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

While  all  that  ardent  kindred  passed  him  by? 
His  flesh  cried  out  to  live  with  living  men 
And  join  that  soul  which  to  the  inward  ken 
Of  all  the  hymning  train  was  present  there. 
Strong  passion's  daring  sees  not  aught  to  dare : 
The  frost-locked  starkness  of  his  frame  low-bent, 
His  voice's  penury  of  tones  long  spent, 
He  felt  not;  all  his  being  leaped  in  flame 
To  meet  his  kindred  as  they  onward  came 
Slackening  and  wheeling  toward  the  temple's  face: 
He  rushed  before  them  to  the  glittering  space, 
And,  with  a  strength  that  was  but  strong  desire, 
Cried,  "  I  am  Jubal,  I !  ...  I  made  the  lyre !  " 

The  tones  amid  a  lake  of  silence  fell 

Broken  and  strained,  as  if  a  feeble  bell 

Had  tuneless  pealed  the  triumph  of  a  land 

To  listening  crowds  in  expectation  spanned. 

Sudden  came  showers  of  laughter  on  that  lake; 

They  spread  along  the  train  from  front  to  wake 

In  one  great  storm  of  merriment,  while  he 

Shrank  doubting  whether  he  could  Jubal  be, 

And  not  a  dream  of  Jubal,  whose  rich  vein 

Of  passionate  music  came  with  that  dream-pain 

Wherein  the  sense  slips  off  from  each  loved  thing 

And  all  appearance  is  mere  vanishing. 

But  ere  the  laughter  died  from  out  the  rear, 

Anger  in  front  saw  profanation  near ; 

Jubal  was  but  a  name  in  each  man's  faith 

For  glorious  power  untouched  by  that  slow  death 

Which  creeps  with  creeping  time;  this  too,  the  spot, 

And  this  the  day,  it  must  be  crime  to  blot, 

Even  with  scoffing  at  a  madman's  lie: 

Jubal  was  not  a  name  to  wed  with  mockery. 

Two  rushed  upon  him :  two,  the  most  devout 

In  honor  of  great  Jubal,  thrust  him  out, 

And  beat  him  with  their  flutes.     'Twas  little  need; 

He  strove  not,  cried  not,  but  with  tottering  speed, 


"  He  sought  the  screen  of 
Thorny  thickets,  and  there  fell  unseen."— Page  269. 

Eliot— Legend  of  Jubal. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL.  269 

As  if  the  scorn  aud  howls  were  driving  wind 

That  urged  his  body,  serving  so  the  niind 

Which  could  but  shrink  and  yearn,  he  sought  the  screen 

Of  thorny  thickets,  and  there  fell  unseen. 

The  immortal  name  of  Jubal  filled  the  sky, 

While  Jubal  lonely  laid  him  down  to  die. 

He  said  within  his  soul,  "  This  is  the  end : 

O'er  all  the  earth  to  where  the  heavens  bend 

And  hem  men's  travel,  I  have  breathed  my  soul: 

I  lie  here  now  the  remnant  of  that  whole, 

The  embers  of  a  life,  a  lonely  pain ; 

As  far-off  rivers  to  my  thirst  were  vain, 

So  of  my  mighty  years  nought  comes  to  me  again. 

"  Is  the  day  sinking?     Softest  coolness  springs 
From  something  round  me :  dewy  shadowy  wings 
Enclose  me  all  around — no,  not  above — 
Is  moonlight  there?     I  see  a  face  of  love, 
Fair  as  sweet  music  when  my  heart  was  strong: 
Yea — art  thou  come  again  to  me,  great  Song?  " 

The  face  bent  over  him  like  silver  night 

In  long-remembered  summers ;  that  calm  light 

Of  days  which  shine  in  firmaments  of  thought, 

That  past  unchangeable,  from  change  still  wrought. 

And  gentlest  tones  were  with  the  vision  blent : 

He  knew  not  if  that  gaze  the  music  sent, 

Or  music  that  calm  gaze :  to  hear,  to  see, 

Was  but  one  undivided  ecstasy : 

The  raptured  senses  melted  into  one, 

And  parting  life  a  moment's  freedom  won 

From  in  and  outer,  as  a  little  child 

Sits  on  a  bank  and  sees  blue  heavens  mild 

Down  in  the  water,  and  forgets  its  limbs, 

And  knoweth  nought  save  the  blue  heaven  that  swims. 

"Jubal,"  the  face  said,  "  I  am  thy  loved  Past, 
The  soul  that  makes  thee  one  from  first  to  last. 
I  am.  the  angel  of  thy  life  and  death, 


270  POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Thy  outbreathed  being  drawing  its  last  breath. 
Am  I  not  thine  alone,  a  dear  dead  bride 
Who  blest  thy  lot  above  all  men's  beside? 
Thy  bride  whom  thou  wouldst  never  change,  nor  take 
Any  bride  living,  for  that  dead  one's  sake? 
Was  I  not  all  thy  yearning  and  delight, 
Thy  chosen  search,  thy  senses'  beauteous  Right, 
Which  still  had  been  the  hunger  of  thy  frame 
In  central  heaven,  hadst  thou  been  still  the  same? 
Wouldst  thou  have  asked  aught  else  from  any  god — 
Whether  with  gleaming  feet  on  earth  he  trod 
Or  thundered  through  the  skies — aught  else  for  share 
Of  mortal  good,  than  in  thy  soul  to  bear 
The  growth  of  song,  and  feel  the  sweet  unrest 
Of  the  world's  spring-tide  in  thy  conscious  breast? 
No,  thou  hadst  grasped  thy  lot  with  all  its  pain, 
Nor  loosed  it  any  painless  lot  to  gain 
Where  music's  voice  was  silent;  for  thy  fate 
Was  human  music' s  self  incorporate : 
Thy  senses'  keenness  and  thy  passionate  strife 
Were  flesh  of  her  flesh  and  her.  womb  of  life. 
And  greatly  hast  thou  lived,  for  not  alone 
With  hidden  raptures  were  her  secrets  shown, 
Buried  within  thee,  as  the  purple  light 
Of  gems  may  sleep  in  solitary  night ; 
But  thy  expanding  joy  was  still  to  give, 
And  with  the  generous  air  in  song  to  live, 
Feeding  the  wave  of  ever-widening  bliss 
Where  fellowship  means  equal  perfectness. 
And  on  the  mountains  in  thy  wandering 
Thy  feet  were  beautiful  as  blossomed  spring 
That  turns  the  leafless  wood  to  love's  glad  home, 
.    For  with  thy  coming  Melody  was  come. 
This  was  thy  lot,  to  feel,  create,  bestow, 
And  that  immeasurable  life  to  know 
From  which  the  fleshly  self  falls  shrivelled,  dead, 
A  seed  primeval  that  has  forests  bred. 
It  is  the  glory  of  the  heritage 
Thy  life  has  left,  that  makes  thy  outcast  age: 


THE  LEGEND  OF  JUBAL.  271 

Thy  limbs  shall  lie  dark,  tombless  on  this  sod, 
Because  thou  shinest  in  man's  soul,  a  god, 
Who  found  and  gave  new  passion  and  new  joy 
That  nought  but  Earth's  destruction  can  destroy. 
Thy  gifts  to  give  was  thine  of  men  alone : 
'Twas  but  in  giving  that  thou  couldst  atone 
For  too  much  wealth  amid  their  poverty." — 

The  words  seemed  melting  into  symphony, 
The  wings  upbore  him,  and  the  gazing  song 
Was  floating  him  the  heavenly  space  along, 
Where  mighty  harmonies  all  gently  fell 
Through  veiling  vastness,  like  the  far-off  bell, 
Till,  ever  onward  through  the  choral  blue, 
He  heard  more  faintly  and  more  faintly  knew, 
Quitting  mortality,  a  quenched  sun-wave, 
The  All-creating  Presence  for  his  grave. 
1869. 


AGATHA. 


COME  with  me  to  the  mountain,  not  where  rocks 

Soar  harsh  above  the  troops  of  hurrying  pines, 

But  where  the  earth  spreads  soft  and  rounded  breasts 

To  feed  her  children ;  where  the  generous  hills 

Lift  a  green  isle  betwixt  the  sky  and  plain 

To  keep  some  Old  World  things  aloof  from  change. 

Here  too  'tis  hill  and  hollow :  new-born  streams 

With  sweet  enforcement,  joyously  compelled 

Like  laughing  children,  hurry  down  the  steeps, 

And  make  a  dimpled  chase  athwart  the  stones ; 

Pine  woods  are  black  upon  the  heights,  the  slopes 

Are  green  with  pasture,  and  the  bearded  corn 

Fringes  the  blue  above  the  sudden  ridge : 

A  little  world  whose  round  horizon  cuts 

This  isle  of  hills  with  heaven  for  a  sea, 

Save  in  clear  moments  when  southwestward  gleams 

France  by  the  Rhine,  melting  anon  to  haze. 

The  monks  of  old  chose  here  their  still  retreat, 

And  called  it  by  the  Blessed  Virgin's  name, 

Sancta  Maria,  which  the  peasant's  tongue, 

Speaking  from  out  the  parent's  heart  that  turns 

All  loved  things  into  little  things,  has  made 

Sanct  Margen, — Holy  little  Mary,  dear 

As  all  the  sweet  home  things  she  smiles  upon, 

The  children  and  the  cows,  the  apple-trees, 

The  cart,  the  plough,  all  named  with  that  caress 

Which  feigns  them  little,  easy  to  be  held, 

Familiar  to  the  eyes  and  hand  and  heart. 

What  though  a  Queen !     She  puts  her  crown  away 

And  with  her  little  Boy  wears  common  clothes, 


"  Come  with  me  to  the  mountain 

Where  earth  spreads  soft  and  rounded  breasts  to  feed  her  children." 
Page  272.  Eliot— Agatha. 


AGATHA.  273 

Caring  for  common  wants,  remembering 
That  day  when  good  Saint  Joseph  left  his  work 
To  marry  her  with  humble  trust  sublime. 
The  monks  are  gone,  their  shadows  fall  no  more 
Tall-frocked  and  cowled  athwart  the  evening  fields 
At  milking-time ;  their  silent  corridors 
Are  turned  to  homes  of  bare-armed,  aproned  men, 
Who  toil  for  wife  and  children.     But  the  bells, 
Pealing  on  high  from  two  quaint  convent  towers, 
Still  ring  the  Catholic  signals,  summoning 
To  grave  remembrance  of  the  larger  life 
That  bears  our  own,  like  perishable  fruit 
Upon  its  heaven-wide  branches.     At  their  sound 
The  shepherd  boy  far  off  upon  the  hill, 
The  workers  with  the  saw  and  at  the  forge, 
The  triple  generation  round  the  hearth, — 
Grandames  and  mothers  and  the  flute- voiced  girls, — 
Fall  on  their  knees  and  send  forth  prayerful  cries 
To  the  kind  Mother  with  the  little  Boy, 
Who  pleads  for  helpless  men  against  the  storm, 
Lightning  and  plagues  and  all  terrific  shapes 
Of  power  supreme. 

Within  the  prettiest  hollow  of  these  hills, 
Just  as  you  enter  it,  upon  the  slope 
Stands  a  low  cottage  neighbored  cheerily 
By  running  water,  which,  at  farthest  end 
Of  the  same  hollow,  turns  a  heavy  mill, 
And  feeds  the  pasture  for  the  miller's  cows, 
Blanchi  and  Nageli,  Veilchen  and  the  rest, 
Matrons  with  faces  as  Griselda  mild, 
Coming  at  call.     And  on  the  farthest  height 
A  little  tower  looks  out  above  the  pines 
Where  mounting  you  will  find  a  sanctuary 
Open  and  still;  without,  the  silent  crowd 
Of  heaven-planted,  incense-mingling  flowers ; 
Within,  the  altar  where  the  Mother  sits 
'Mid  votive  tablets  hung  from  far-off  years 
By  peasants  succored  in  the  peril  of  fire, 
Fever,  or  flood,  who  thought  that  Mary's  love, 
18 


274  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Willing  but  not  omnipotent,  had  stood 

Between  their  lives  and  that  dread  power  which  slew 

Their  neighbor  at  their  side.     The  chapel  bell 

Will  melt  to  gentlest  music  ere  it  reach 

That  cottage  on  the  slope,  whose  garden  gate 

Has  caught  the  rose-tree  boughs  and  stands  ajar; 

So  does  the  door,  to  let  the  sunbeams  in; 

For  in  the  slanting  sunbeams  angels  come 

And  visit  Agatha  who  dwells  within, — 

Old  Agatha,  whose  cousins  Kate  and  Nell 

Are  housed  by  her  in  Love  and  Duty's  name, 

They  being  feeble,  with  small  withered  wits, 

And  she  believing  that  the  higher  gift 

Was  given  to  be  shared.     So  Agatha 

Shares  her  one  room,  all  neat  on  afternoons, 

As  if  some  memory  were  sacred  there 

And  everything  within  the  four  low  walls 

An  honored  relic. 

One  long  summer's  day 
An  angel  entered  at  the  rose-hung  gate, 
With  skirts  pale  blue,  a  brow  to  quench  the  pearl, 
Hair  soft  and  blonde  as  infants',  plenteous 
As  hers  who  made  the  wavy  lengths  once  speak 
The  grateful  worship  of  a  rescued  soul. 
The  angel  paused  before  the  open  door 
To  give  good  day.     "  Come  in, "  said  Agatha. 
I  followed  close,  and  watched  and  listened  there. 
The  angel  was  a  lady,  noble,  young, 
Taught  in  all  seemliness  that  fits  a  court, 
All  lore  that  shapes  the  mind  to  delicate  use, 
Yet  quiet,  lowly,  as  a  meek  white  dove 
That  with  its  presence  teaches  gentleness. 
Men  called  her  Countess  Linda;  little  girls 
In  Freiburg  town,  orphans  whom  she  caressed, 
Said  Mamma  Linda :  yet  her  years  were  few, 
Her  outward  beauties  all  in  budding  time, 
Her  virtues  the  aroma  of  the  plant 
That  dwells  in  all  its  being,  root,  stem,  leaf, 
And  waits  not  ripeness. 


1  Fair  Countess  Linda  sat  upon  the  bench 
Close  fronting  the  old  knitter."-  Page  275. 


Eliot— Agatha. 


AGATHA.  275 

"Sit,"  said  Agatha. 

Her  cousins  were  at  work  in  neighboring  homes 
But  yet  she  was  not  lonely ;  all  things  round 
Seemed  filled  with  noiseless  yet  responsive  life, 
As  of  a  child  at  breast  that  gently  clings : 
Not  sunlight  only  or  the  breathing  flowers 
Or  the  swift  shadows  of  the  birds  and  bees, 
But  all  the  household  goods,  which,  polished  fair 
By  hands  that  cherished  them  for  service  done, 
Shone  as  with  glad  content.     The  wooden  beams 
Dark  and  yet  friendly,  easy  to  be  reached, 
Bore  three  white  crosses  for  a  speaking  sign ; 
The  walls  had  little  pictures  hung  a-row, 
Telling  the  stories  of  Saint  Ursula, 
And  Saint  Elizabeth,  the  lowly  queen; 
And  on  the  bench  that  served  for  table  too, 
Skirting  the  wall  to  save  the  narrow  space, 
There  lay  the  Catholic  books,  inherited 
From  those  old  times  when  printing  still  was  young 
With  stout-limbed  promise,  like  a  sturdy  boy. 
And  in  the  farthest  corner  stood  the  bed 
Where  o'er  the  pillow  hung  two  pictures  wreathed 
With  fresh-plucked  ivy :  one  the  Virgin's  death, 
And  one  her  flowering  tomb,  while  high  above 
She  smiling  bends  and  lets  her  girdle  down 
For  ladder  to  the  soul  that  cannot  trust 
In  life  which  outlasts  burial.     Agatha 
Sat  at  her  knitting,  aged,  upright,  slim, 
And  spoke  her  welcome  with  mild  dignity. 
She  kept  the  company  of  kings  and  queens 
And  mitred  saints  who  sat  below  the  feet 
Of  Francis  with  the  ragged  frock  and  wounds ; 
And  Rank  for  her  meant  Duty,  various,* 
Yet  equal  in  its  worth,  done  worthily. 
Command  was  service ;  humblest  service  done 
By  willing  and  discerning  souls  was  glory. 
Fair  Countess  Linda  sat  upon  the  bench, 
Close  fronting  the  old  knitter,  and  they  talked 
With  sweet  antiphony  of  young  and  old. 


276  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


AGATHA. 

You  like  our  valley,  lady?     I  am  glad 

You  thought  it  well  to  come  again.     But  rest— 

The  walk  is  long  from  Master  Michael's  inn. 

COUNTESS  LINDA. 
Yes,  but  no  walk  is  prettier. 

AGATHA. 

It  is  true : 

There  lacks  no  blessing  here,  the  waters  all 
Have  virtues  like  the  garments  of  the  Lord, 
And  heal  much  sickness ;  then,  the  crops  and  cows 
Flourish  past  speaking,  and  the  garden  flowers, 
Pink,  blue,  and  purple,  'tis  a  joy  to  see 
How  they  yield  honey  for  the  singing  bees. 
I  would  the  whole  world  were  as  good  a  home. 

COUNTESS  LINDA. 

And  you  are  well  off,  Agatha? — your  friends 
Left  you  a  certain  bread :  is  it  not  so? 

AGATHA. 

Not  so  at  all,  dear  lady.     I  had  nought, 

Was  a  poor  orphan;  but  I  came  to  tend 

Here  in  this  house,  an  old  afflicted  pair, 

Who  wore  out  slowly ;  and  the  last  who  died, 

Full  thirty  years  ago,  left  me  this  roof 

And  all  the'household  stuff.     It  was  great  wealth; 

And  so  I  had  a  home  for  Kate  and  Nell. 

COUNTESS  LINDA. 

But  how,  then,  have  you  earned  your  daily  bread 
These  thirty  years? 


AGATHA.  277 

AGATHA. 

0,  that  is  easy  earning. 
We  help  the  neighbors,  and  our  bit  and  sup 
Is  never  failing :  they  have  work  for  us 
In  house  and  field,  all  sorts  of  odds  and  ends, 
Patching  and  mending,  turning  o'er  the  hay, 
Holding  sick  children, — there  is  always  work; 
And  they  are  very  good,  — the  neighbors  are : 
Weigh  not  our  bits  of  work  with  weight  and  scale, 
But  glad  themselves  with  giving  us  good  shares 
Of  meat  and  drink ;  and  in  the  big  farm-house 
When  cloth  comes  home  from  weaving,  the  good  wife 
Cats  me  a  piece, — this  very  gown, — and  says: 
"  Here,  Agatha,  you  old  maid,  you  have  time 
To  pray  for  Hans  who  is  gone  soldiering : 
The  saints  might  help  him,  and  they  have  much  to  do, 
'Twere  well  they  were  besought  to  think  of  him." 
She  spoke  half  jesting,  but  I  pray,  I  pray 
For  poor  young  Hans.     I  take  it  much  to  heart 
That  other  people  are  worse  off  than  I, — 
I  ease  my  soul  with  praying  for  them  all. 

COUNTESS  LINDA. 

That  is  your  way  of  singing,  Agatha; 

Just  as  the  nightingales  pour  forth  sad  songs, 

And  when  they  reach  men's  ears  they  make  men's  hearts 

Feel  the  more  kindly. 

AGATHA. 

Nay,  I  cannot  sing: 

My  voice  is  hoarse,  and  oft  I  think  my  prayers 
Are  foolish,  feeble  things ;  for  Christ  is  good 
Whether  I  pray  or  not, — the  Virgin's  heart 
Is  kinder  far  than  mine ;  and  then  I  stop 
And  feel  I  can  do  nought  toward  helping  men, 
Till  out  it  comes,  like  tears  that  will  not  hold, 
And  I  must  pray  again  for  all  the  world. 


278  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

'Tis  good  to  me, — I  mean  the  neighbors  are: 
To  Kate  and  Nell  too.  I  have  money  saved 
To  go  on  pilgrimage  the  second  time. 

COUNTESS  LINDA. 

And  do  you  mean  to  go  on  pilgrimage 
With  all  your  years  to  carry,  Agatha? 

AGATHA. 

The  years  are  light,  dear  lady :  'tis  my  sins 
Are  heavier  than  I  would.     And  I  shall  go 
All  the  way  to  Einsiedeln  with  that  load : 
I  need  to  work  it  off. 

COUNTESS  LINDA. 

What  sort  of  sins, 
Bear  Agatha?     I  think  they  must  be  small. 

AGATHA. 

Nay,  but  they  may  be  greater  than  I  know ; 
'Tis  but  dim  light  I  see  by.     So  I  try 
All  ways  I  know  of  to  be  cleansed  and  pure. 
I  would  not  sink  where  evil  spirits  are. 
There's  perfect  goodness  somewhere:  so  I  strive. 

COUNTESS  LINDA. 

You  were  the  better  for  that  pilgrimage 
You  made  before?     The  shrine  is  beautiful; 
And  then  you  saw  fresh  country  all  the  way. 

AGATHA. 

Yes,  that  is  true.     And  ever  since  that  time 
The  world  seems  greater,  and  the  Holy  Church 
More  wonderful.     The  blessed  pictures  all, 
The  heavenly  images  with  books  and  wings, 
Are  company  to  me  through  the  day  and  night. 
The  time!  the  time!     It  never  seemed  far  back, 


AGATHA.  279 

Only  to  father's  father  and  his  kin 

That  lived  before  him.     But  the  time  stretched  out 

After  that  pilgrimage :  I  seemed  to  see 

Far  back,  and  yet  I  knew  time  lay  behind, 

As  there  are  countries  lying  still  behind 

The  highest  mountains,  there  in  Switzerland. 

0,  it  is  great  to  go  on  pilgrimage ! 

COUNTESS  LINDA. 

Perhaps  some  neighbors  will  be  pilgrims  too, 
And  you  can  start  together  in  a  band. 

AGATHA. 

Not  from  these  hills :  people  are  busy  here, 

The  beasts  want  tendance.     One  who  is  not  missed 

Can  go  and  pray  for  others  who  must  work. 

I  owe  it  to  all  neighbors,  young  and  old; 

For  they  are  good  past  thinking, — lads  and  girls 

Given  to  mischief,  merry  naughtiness, 

Quiet  it,  as  the  hedgehogs  smooth  their  spines, 

For  fear  of  hurting  poor  old  Agatha. 

'Tis  pretty :  why,  the  cherubs  in  the  sky 

Look  young  and  merry,  and  the  angels  play 

On  citherns,  lutes,  and  all  sweet  instruments. 

I  would  have  young  things  merry.     See  the  Lord  I 

A  little  baby  playing  with  the  birds ; 

And  how  the  Blessed  Mother  smiles  at  him. 

COUNTESS  LINDA. 

I  think  you  are  too  happy,  Agatha, 

To  care  for  heaven.     Earth  contents  you  well. 

AGATHA. 

Nay,  nay,  I  shall  be  called,  and  I  shall  go 

Right  willingly.     I  shall  get  helpless,  blind", 

Be  like  an  old  stalk  to  be  plucked  away : 

The  garden  must  be  cleared  for  young  spring  plants. 


280  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

'Tis  home  beyond  the  grave,  the  most  are  there, 
All  those  we  pray  to,  all  the  Church's  lights, — 
And  poor  old  souls  are  welcome  in  their  rags : 
One  sees  it  by  the  pictures.     Good  Saint  Ann, 
The  Virgin's  mother,  she  is  very  old, 
And  had  her  troubles  with  her  husband  too. 
Poor  Kate  and  Nell  are  younger  far  than  I, 
But  they  will  have  this  roof  to  cover  them. 
I  shall  go  willingly ;  and  willingness 
Makes  the  yoke  easy  and  the  burden  light. 

COUNTESS  LINDA. 

When  you  go  southward  in  your  pilgrimage, 

Come  to  see  me  in  Freiburg,  Agatha. 

Where  you  have  friends  you  should  not  go  to  inna 

AGATHA. 

Yes,  I  will  gladly  come  to  see  you,  lady. 
And  you  will  give  me  sweet  hay  for  a  bed, 
And  in  the  morning  I  shall  wake  betimes 
And  start  when  all  the  birds  begin  to  sing. 

COUNTESS  LINDA. 

You  wear  your  smart  clothes  on  the  pilgrimage, 
Such  pretty  clothes  as  all  the  women  here 
Keep  by  them  for  their  best :  a  velvet  cap 
And  collar  golden-broidered?     They  look  well 
On  old  and  young  alike. 

AGATHA. 

Nay,  I  have  none, — 

Never  had  better  clothes  than  these  you  see. 
Good  clothes  are  pretty,  but  one  sees  them  best 
When  others  wear  them,  and  I  somehow  thought 
'Twas  not  worth  while.     I  had  so  many  things 
More  than  some  neighbors,  I  was  partly  shy 


AGATHA.  281 

Of  wearing  better  clothes  than  they,  and  now 
I  am  so  old  and  custom  is  so  strong 
'T would  hurt  me  sore  to  put  on  finery. 

COUNTESS  LINDA. 

Your  gray  hair  is  a  crown,  dear  Agatha. 

Shake  hands;  good-bye.     The  sun  is  going  down, 

And  I  must  see  the  glory  from  the  hill. 

I  stayed  among  those  hills ;  and  oft  heard  more 
Of  Agatha.     I  liked  to  hear  her  name, 
As  that  of  one  half  grandame  and  half  saint, 
Uttered  with  reverent  playfulness.     The  lads 
And  younger  men  all  called  her  mother,  aunt, 
Or  granny,  with  their  pet  diminutives, 
And  bade  their  lasses  and  their  brides  behave 
Eight  well  to  one  who  surely  made  a  link 
'Twixt  faulty  folk  and  God  by  loving  both: 
Not  one  but  counted  service  done  by  her, 
Asking  no  pay  save  just  her  daily  bread. 
At  feasts  and  weddings,  when  they  passed  in  groups 
Along  the  vale,  and  the  good  country  wine, 
Being  vocal  in  them,  made  them  quire  along 
In  quaintly  mingled  mirth  and  piety, 
They  fain  must  jest  and  play  some  friendly  trick 
On  three  old  maids ;  but  when  the  moment  came 
Always  they  baited  breath  and  made  their  sport 
Gentle  as  feather-stroke,  that  Agatha 
Might  like  the  waking  for  the  love  it  showed. 
Their  song  made  happy  music  'mid  the  hills, 
For  nature  tuned  their  race  to  harmony, 
And  poet  Hans,  the  tailor,  wrote  them  songs 
That  grew  from  out  their  life,  as  crocuses 
From  out  the  meadow's  moistness.     'Twas  his  song 
They  oft  sang,  wending  homeward  from  a  feast, — 
The  song  I  give  you.     It  brings  in,  you  see, 
Their  gentle  jesting  with  the  three  old  maids. 

Midnight  by  the  chapel  bell! 
Homeward,  homeward  all,  farewell! 


282  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

I  with  you,  and  you  with  me, 
Miles  are  short  with  company. 

Heart  of  Mary,  bless  the  way, 
Keep  us  all  by  night  and  day  ! 

Moon  and  stars  at  feast  with  night 
Now  have  drunk  their  fill  of  light. 
Home  they  hurry,  making  time 
Trot  apace,  like  merry  rhyme. 
Heart  of  Mary,  mystic  rose, 
Send  us  all  a  sweet  repose  ! 

Swiftly  through  the  wood  down  hill, 
Run  till  you  can  hear  the  mill. 
Toni's  ghost  is  wandering  now, 
Shaped  just  like  a  snow-white  cow. 
Heart  of  Mary,  morning  star, 
Ward  off  danger,  near  or  far  ! 

Toni's  wagon  with  its  load 
Fell  and  crushed  him  in  the  road 
'Twixt  these  pine-trees.     Never  fear! 
Give  a  neighbor's  ghost  good  cheer. 
Holy  Babe,  our  God  and  Brother, 
Bind  us  fast  to  one  another  ! 

Hark!  the  mill  is  at  its  work, 
Now  we  pass  beyond  the  murk 
To  the  hollow,  where  the  moon 
Makes  her  silvery  afternoon. 

Good  Saint  Joseph,  faithful  spouse, 
Help  us  all  to  keep  our  vows  ! 

Here  the  three  old  maidens  dwell, 

Agatha  and  Kate  and  Nell ; 

See,  the  moon  shines  on  the  thatch, 

We  will  go  and  shake  the  latch. 
Heart  of  Mary,  cup  of  joy, 
Give  us  mirth  without  alloy  I 


AGATHA.  283 

Hush,  'tis  here,  no  noise,  sing  low, 
Rap  with  gentle  knuckles — so! 
Like  the  little  tapping  birds, 
On  the  door;  then  sing  good  words. 

Meek  Saint  Anna,  old  and  fair, 

Hallow  all  the  snow-white  hair  I 

Little  maidens  old,  sweet  dreams! 
Sleep  one  sleep  till  morning  beams. 
Mothers  ye,  who  help  us  all, 
Quick  at  hand,  if  ill  befall. 

Holy  Gabriel,  lily-laden, 

Bless  the  aged  mother-maiden  ! 

Forward,  mount  the  broad  hillside 

Swift  as  soldiers  when  they  ride. 

See  the  two  towers  how  they  peep, 

Round-capped  giants,  o'er  the  steep. 
Heart  of  Mary,  by  thy  sorrow, 
Keep  us  upright  through  the  morrow  ! 

Now  they  rise  quite  suddenly 

Like  a  man  from  bended  knee, 

Now  Saint  Margen  is  in  sight, 

Here  the  roads  branch  off— good  night! 

Heart  of  Mary,  by  thy  grace, 

Give  ?<s  with  the  saints  a  place  J 

1868. 


ARMGART. 


SCENE  I. 

A  Salon  lit  with  lamps  and  ornamented  with  green  plants. 
An  open  piano,  with  many  scattered  sheets  of  music. 
Bronze  busts  of  Beethoven  and  Gluck  on  pillars  opposite 
each  other.  A  small  table  spread  with  supper.  To 
FRAULEIN  WALPURGA,  who  advances  with  a  slight 
lameness  of  gait  from  an  adjoining  room,  enters  GRAF 
DORNBERG  at  the  opposite  door  in  a  travelling  dress. 

GRAF. 
Good  morning,  Fraulein ! 

WALPURGA. 

What,  so  soon  returned? 
I  feared  yonr  mission  kept  you  still  at  Prague. 

GRAF. 

But  now  arrived !     You  see  my  trayelling  dress. 
I  hurried  from  the  panting,  roaring  steam 
Like  any  courier  of  embassy 
Who  hides  the  fiends  of  war  within  his  bag. 

WALPURGA. 
You  know  that  Armgart  sings  to-night? 


ARMGART.  286 

GRAF. 

Has  sung! 

"Tis  close  on  half-past  nine.     The  Orpheus 
Lasts  not  so  long.     Her  spirits — were  they  high? 
Was  Leo  confident? 

WALPUBGA. 

He  only  feared 

Some  tameness  at  beginning.     Let  the  house 
Once  ring,  he  said,  with  plaudits,  she  is  safe, 

GBAF. 

And  Armgart? 

WALPUBGA. 

She  was  stiller  than  her  wont. 
But  once,  at  some  such  trivial  word  of  mine, 
As  that  the  highest  prize  might  yet  be  won 
By  her  who  took  the  second — she  was  roused. 
"  For  me,"  she  said,  "  I  triumph  or  I  fail. 
I  never  strove  for  any  second  prize." 

GBAF. 

Poor  human-hearted  singing-bird!     She  bears 

Caesar's  ambition  in  her  delicate  breast, 

And  nought  to  still  it  with  but  quivering  song! 

WALPURGA. 

I  had  not  for  the  world  been  there  to-night : 
Unreasonable  dread  oft  chills  me  more 
Than  any  reasonable  hope  can  warm. 

GBAF. 

You  have  a  rare  affection  for  your  cousin ; 
As  tender  as  a  sister' s. 


286  POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

WALPURGA. 

Nay,  I  fear 

My  love  is  little  more  than  what  I  felt 
For  happy  stories  when  I  was  a  child. 
She  fills  my  life  that  would  be  empty  else, 
And  lifts  my  nought  to  value  by  her  side. 

GRAF. 

She  is  reason  good  enough,  or  seems  to  be, 
Why  all  were  born  whose  being  ministers 
To  her  completeness.     Is  it  most  her  voice 
Subdues  us?  or  her  instinct  exquisite, 
Informing  each  old  strain  with  some  new  grace 
Which  takes  our  sense  like  any  natural  good? 
Or  most  her  spiritual  energy 
That  sweeps  us  in  the  current  of  her  song? 

WALPURGA. 

I  know  not.     Loosing  either,  we  should  lose 
That  whole  we  call  our  Armgart.     For  herself, 
She  often  wonders  what  her  life  had  been 
Without  that  voice  for  channel  to  her  soul. 
She  says,  it  must  have  leaped  through  all  her  limbs- 
Made  her  a  Msenad — made  her  snatch  a  brand 
And  fire  some  forest,  that  her  rage  might  mount 
In  crashing  roaring  flames  through  half  a  land, 
Leaving  her  still  and  patient  for  a  while. 
"  Poor  wretch !  "  she  says,  of  any  murderess — 
"  The  world  was  cruel,  and  she  could  not  sing : 
I  carry  my  revenges  in  my  throat; 
I  love  in  singing,  and  am  loved  again." 

GRAF. 

Mere  mood!     I  cannot  yet  believe  it  more. 
Too  much  ambition  has  unwomaned  her; 
But  only  for  a  while.     Her  nature  hides 
One  half  its  treasures  by  its  very  wealth, 
Taxing  the  hours  to  show  it. 


Place  for  the  Queen  of  Song.  "—Page  287. 

ttHot—Armgoart. 


ARMQART.  287 

WALPURGA. 

Hark !  she  comes. 

ISnter  LEO  with  a  wreath  in  his  hand,  holding  the  door 
open  for  ARMGART,  who  wears  a  furred  mantle  and 
hood.  She  is  followed  by  her  maid,  carrying  an  armful 
of  bouquets. 

LEO. 
Place  for  the  queen  of  song ! 

GRAF  (advancing  toward  ARMGART,  who  throws  off  her  hood 
and  mantle,  and  shows  a  star  of  brilliants  in  her  hair). 

A  triumph,  then. 

You  will  not  be  a  niggard  of  your  joy 
And  chide  the  eagerness  that  came  to  share  it. 

ARMGART. 

0  kind!  you  hastened  your  return  for  me. 

1  would  you  had  been  there  to  hear  me  sing! 
Walpurga,  kiss  me :  never  tremble  more 

Lest  Arrngart's  wing  should  fail  her.     She  has  found 

This  night  the  region  where  her  rapture  breathes — 

Pouring  her  passion  on  the  air  made  live 

With  human  heart-throbs.     Tell  them,  Leo,  tell  them 

How  I  outsang  your  hope  and  made  you  cry 

Because  Gluck  could  not  hear  me.     That  was  folly ! 

He  sang,  not  listened :  every  linked  note 

Was  his  immortal  pulse  that  stirred  in  mine, 

And  all  my  gladness  is  but  part  of  him. 

Give  me  the  wreath. 

[She  crowns  the  bust  of  GLUCK. 

LEO  (sardonically). 

•A-y,  ay,  but  mark  you  this : 
It  was  not  part  of  him — that  trill  you  made 
In  spite  of  me  and  reason ! 


288  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

ABMGABT. 

You  were  wrong — 

Dear  Leo,  you  were  wrong :  the  house  was  held 
As  if  a  storm  were  listening  with  delight 
And  hushed  its  thunder. 

LEO. 

Will  you  ask  the  house 

To  teach  you  singing?     Quit  your  Orpheus  then, 
And  sing  in  farces  grown  to  operas, 
Where  all  the  prurience  of  the  full-fed  mob 
Is  tickled  with  melodic  impudence : 
Jerk  forth  burlesque  bravuras,  square  your  arms 
Akimbo  with  a  tavern  wench's  grace, 
And  set  the  splendid  compass  of  your  voice 
To  lyric  jigs.     Go  to !  I  thought  you  meant 
To  be  an  artist — lift  your  audience 
To  see  your  vision,  not  trick  forth  a  show 
To  please  the  grossest  taste  of  grossest  numbers. 

ABMGABT  (  taking  up  LEO'S  hand,  and  kissing  it). 

Pardon,  good  Leo,  I  am  penitent. 

I  will  do  penance :  sing  a  hundred  trills 

Into  a  deep-dug  grave,  then  burying  them 

As  one  did  Midas'  secret,  rid  myself 

Of  naughty  exultation.     0  I  trilled 

At  nature's  prompting,  like  the  nightingales. 

Go  scold  them,  dearest  Leo. 

LEO. 

I  stop  my  ears. 

Nature  in  Gluck  inspiring  Orpheus, 
Has  done  with  nightingales.     Are  bird-beaks  lips? 

GRAF. 

Truce  to  rebukes!     Tell  us — who  were  not  there—- 
The double  drama :  how  the  expectant  house 
Took  the  first  notes. 


ARMGART.  289 

WALPUKGA  (turning  from  her  occupation  of  decking  the 
room  with  the  flowers). 

Yes,  tell  us  all,  dear  Armgart. 
Did  you  feel  tremors?     Leo,  how  did  she  look? 
Was  there  a  cheer  to  greet  her? 

LEO. 

Not  a  sound. 

She  walked  like  Orpheus  in  his  solitude, 
And  seemed  to  see  nought  but  what  no  man  saw. 
'  Twas  famous.     Not.  the  Schroeder-Devrient 
Had  done  it  better.     But  your  blessed  public 
Had  never  any  judgment  in  cold  blood — 
Thinks  all  perhaps  were  better  otherwise, 
Till  rapture  brings  a  reason. 

ABMGART  (scornfully). 

I  knew  that! 

The  women  whispered,  "  Not  a  pretty  face !  " 
The  men,  "  Well,  well,  a  goodly  length  of  limb : 
She  bears  the  chiton." — It  were  all  the  same 
Were  I  the  Virgin  Mother  and  my  stage 
The  opening  heavens  at  the  Judgment-day : 
Gossips  would  peep,  jog  elbows,  rate  the  price 
Of  such  a  woman  in  the  social  mart. 
What  were  the  drama  of  the  world  to  them, 
Unless  they  felt  the  hell-prong? 

LEO. 

Peace,  now,  peace! 

I  hate  my  phrases  to  be  smothered  o'er  •• 

With  sauce  of  paraphrase,  my  sober  tune 
Made  bass  to  rambling  trebles,  showering  down 
In  endless  demi-semi-quavers. 
19 


290  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

ARMGART  (taking  a  bon-bon  from  the  table,  uplifting 
it  before  putting  it  into  her  mouth,  and  turning 
away. 

Mum! 

GRAF. 
Yes,  tell  us  all  the  glory,  leave  the  blame. 

WALPUKGA. 

You  first,  dear  Leo — what  you  saw  and  heard; 
Then  Armgart — she  must  tell  us  what  she  felt. 

LEO. 

Well!     The  first  notes  came  clearly  firmly  forth. 

And  I  was  easy,  for  behind  those  rills 

I  knew  there  was  a  fountain.     I  could  see 

The  house  was  breathing  gently,  heads  were  still ; 

Parrot  opinion  was  struck  meekly  mute, 

And  human  hearts  were  swelling.     Armgart  stood 

As  if  she  had  been  new-created  there 

And  found  her  voice  which  found  a  melody. 

The  minx !     Gluck  had  not  written,  nor  I  taught : 

Orpheus  was  Armgart,  Armgart  Orpheus. 

Well,  well,  all  through  the  scena  I  could  feel 

The  silence  tremble  now,  now  poise  itself 

With  added  weight  of  feeling,  till  at  last 

Delight  o'er-toppled  it.     The  final  note 

Had  happy  drowning  in  the  unloosed  roar 

That  surged  and  ebbed  and  ever  surged  again, 

Till  expectation  kept  it  pent  awhile 

Ere  Orpheus  returned.     Pfui!     He  was  changed: 

My  demi-god  was  pale,  had  downcast  eyes 

That  quivered  like  a  bride's  who  fain  would  send 

Backward  the  rising  tear. 


ARMGART.  291 

ARMGART    (advancing,  but  then   turning  away,    as   if  to 
check  her  speech). 

I  was  a  bride 
As  nuns  are  at  their  spousals. 

LEO. 

Ay,  my  lady, 

That  moment  will  not  come  again :  applause 
May  come  and  plenty;  but  the  first,  first  draught! 

(Snaps  his  fingers.) 

Music  has  sounds  for  it — I  know  no  words. 
I  felt  it  once  myself  when  they  performed 
My  overture  to  Sintram.     Well !  'tis  strange, 
We  know  not  pain  from  pleasure  in  such  joy. 

ARMGART  (turning  quickly). 

Oh,  pleasure  has  cramped  dwelling  in  our  souls, 
And  when  full  Being  comes  must  call  on  pain 
To  lend  it  liberal  space. 

WALPURGA. 

I  hope  the  house 

Kept  a  reserve  of  plaudits :  I  am  jealous 
Lest  they  had  dulled  themselves  for  coming  good 
That  should  have  seemed  the  better  and  the  best. 

LEO. 

No,  'twas  a  revel  where  they  had  but  quaffed 
Their  opening  cup.     I  thank  the  artist's  star, 
His  audience  keeps  not  sober :  once  afire, 
They  flame  toward  climax,  though  his  merit  hold 
But  fairly  even. 

ARMGART  (her  hand  on  LEO'S  arm). 

Now,  now,  confess  the  truth  : 
I  sang  still  better  to  the  very  end — 


292  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

All  save  the  trill ;  I  give  that  up  to  you, 
To  bite  and  growl  at.     Why,  you  said  yourself, 
Each  time  I  sang,  it  seemed  new  doors  were  oped 
That  you  might  hear  heaven  clearer. 

LEO  (shaking  his  finger). 

I  was  raving. 

ARMGART. 

I  am  not  glad  with  that  mean  vanity 

Which  knows  no  good  beyond  its  appetite 

Full  feasting  upon  praise!     I  am  only  glad, 

Being  praised  for  what  I  know  is  worth  the  praise; 

Glad  of  the  proof  that  I  myself  have  part 

In  what  I  worship !     At  the  last  applause — 

Seeming  a  roar  of  tropic  winds  that  tossed 

The  handkerchiefs  and  many-colored  flowers, 

Falling  like  shattered  rainbows  all  around — 

Think  you  I  felt  myself  a  prima  donna  ? 

No,  but  a  happy  spiritual  star 

Such  as  old  Dante  saw,  wrought  in  a  rose 

Of  light  in  Paradise,  whose  only  self 

Was  consciousness  of  glory  wide-diffused, 

Music,  life,  power — I  moving  in  the  midst 

With  a  sublime  necessity  of  good. 

LEO  (with  a  shrug"). 

I  thought  it  was  a  prima  dbnna  came 
Within  the  side-scenes;  ay,  and  she  was  proud 
To  find  the  bouquet  from  the  royal  box 
Enclosed  a  jewel-case,  and  proud  to  wear 
A  star  of  brilliants,  quite  an  earthly  star, 
Valued  by  thalers.     Come,  my  lady,  own 
Ambition  has  five  senses,  and  a  self 
That  gives  it  good  warm  lodging  when  it  sinks 
Plump  down  from  ecstasy. 


ARMGART.  293 

ARMGART. 

Own  it?  why  not? 

Am  I  a  sage  whose  words  must  fall  like  seed 
Silently  buried  toward  a  far-off  spring? 
I  sing  to  living  men  and  my  effect 
Is  like  the  summer's  sun,  that  ripens  corn 
Or  now  or  never.     If  the  world  brings  me  gifts, 
Gold,  incense,  myrrh — 'twill  be  the  needful  sign 
That  I  have  stirred  it  as  the  high  year  stirs 
Before  I  sink  to  winter. 

GRAF. 

Ecstasies 

Are  short — most  happily !     We  should  but  lose 
Were  Armgart  borne  too  commonly  and  long 
Out  of  the  self  that  charms  us.     Could  I  choose, 
She  were  less  apt  to  soar  beyond  the  reach 
Of  woman' s  foibles,  innocent  vanities, 
Fondness  for  trifles  like  that  pretty  star 
Twinkling  beside  her  cloud  of  ebon  hair. 

ARMGART  (taking  out  the  gem  and  looking  at  it). 

This  little  star !     I  would  it  were  the  seed 

Of  a  whole  Milky  Way,  if  such  bright  shimmer 

Were  the  sole  speech  men  told  their  rapture  with 

At  Armgart' s  music.     Shall  I  turn  aside 

From  splendors  which  flash  out  the  glow  I  make, 

And  live  to  make,  in  all  the  chosen  breasts 

Of  half  a  Continent?    No,  may  it  come, 

That  splendor !     May  the  day  be  near  when  men 

Think  much  to  let  my  horses  draw  me  home, 

And  new  lands  welcome  me  upon  their  beach, 

Loving  me  for  my  fame.     That  is  the  truth 

Of  what  I  wish,  nay,  yearn  for.     Shall  I  lie? 

Pretend  to  seek  obscurity — to  sing 

In  hope  of  disregard?     A  vile  pretence! 

And  blasphemy  besides.     For  what  is  fame 


294  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

But  the  benignant  strength  of  One,  transformed 
To  joy  of  Many?     Tributes,  plaudits  come 
As  necessary  breathing  of  such  joy; 
And  may  they  come  to  me ! 

GRAF. 

The  auguries 

Point  clearly  that  way.     Is  it  no  offence 
To  wish  the  eagle's  wing  may  find  repose, 
As  feebler  wings  do,  in  a  quiet  nest? 
Or  has  the  taste  of  fame  already  turned 
The  Woman  to  a  Muse  .  .  . 

LEO  (going  to  the  table). 

Who  needs  no  supper. 
I  am  her  priest,  ready  to  eat  her  share 
Of  good  Walpurga's  offerings. 


WALPURGA. 

Armgart,  come. 


Graf,  will  you  come? 


GRAF. 


Thanks,  I  play  trunt  here, 
And  must  retrieve  my  self -indulged  delay. 
But  will  the  Muse  receive  a  votary 
At  any  hour  to-morrow? 

ARMGART. 

Any  hour 
After  rehearsal,  after  twelve  at  noon. 


ARMGART.  296 


SCENE   II. 

The  same  Salon,  morning.  AKMGART  seated,  in  her  bonnet 
and  walking  dress.  The  GRAF  standing  near  her  against 
the  piano. 

GRAF. 

i 

Armgart,  to  many  minds  the  first  success 

Is  reason  for  desisting.     I  have  known 

A  man  so  versatile,  he  tried  all  arts, 

But  when  in  each  by  turns  he  had  achieved 

Just  so  much  mastery  as  made  men  say, 

"  He  could  be  king  here  if  he  would, "  he  threw 

The  lauded  skill  aside.     He  hates,  said  one, 

The  level  of  achieved  pre-eminence, 

He  must  be  conquering  still ;  but  others  said — 

ARMGART. 

The  truth,  I  hope :  he  had  a  meagre  soul, 

Holding  no  depth  where  love  could  root  itself. 

"  Could  if  he  would?  "     True  greatness  ever  wills — 

It  lives  in  wholeness  if  it  live  at  all, 

And  all  its  strength  is  knit  with  constancy. 

GRAF. 

He  used  to  say  himself  he  was  too  sane 

To  give  his  life  away  for  excellence 

Which  yet  must  stand,  an  ivory  statuette 

Wrought  to  perfection  through  long  lonely  years, 

Huddled  in  the  mart  of  mediocrities. 

He  said,  the  very  finest  doing  wins 

The  admiring  only ;  but  to  leave  undone, 

Promise  and  not  fulfil,  like  buried  youth, 

Wins  all  the  envious,  makes  them  sigh  your  name 

As  that  fair  Absent,  blameless  Possible, 

Which  could  alone  impassion  them ;  and  thus, 


296  POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Serene  negation  has  free  gift  of  all, 

Panting  achievement  struggles,  is  denied, 

Or  wins  to  lose  again.     What  say  you,  Armgart? 

Truth  has  rough  flavors  if  we  bite  it  through — 

I  think  this  sarcasm  came  from  out  its  core 

Of  bitter  irony. 

ARMGART. 

It  is  the  truth 

Mean  souls  select  to  feed  upon.     What  then? 
Their  meanness  is  a  truth,  which  I  will  spurn. 
The  praise  I  seek  lives  not  in  envious  breath 
Using  my  name  to  blight  another's  deed. 
I  sing  for  love  of  song  and  that  renown 
Which  is  the  spreading  act,  the  world-wide  share, 
Of  good  that  I  was  born  with.     Had  I  failed — 
Well,  that  had  been  a  truth  most  pitiable. 
I  cannot  bear  to  think  what  life  would  be 
With  high  hope  shrunk  to  endurance,  stunted  aims 
Like  broken  lances  ground  to  eating -knives, 
A  self  sunk  down  to  look  with  level  eyes 
At  low  achievement,  doomed  from  day  to  day 
To  distaste  of  its  consciousness.     But  I — 

GRAF.     - 

Have  won,  not  lost,  in  your  decisive  throw. 

And  I  too  glory  in  this  issue ;  yet, 

The  public  verdict  has  no  potency 

To  sway  my  judgment  of  what  Armgart  is: 

My  pure  delight  in  her  would  be  but  sullied, 

If  it  overflowed  with  mixture  of  men's  praise. 

And  had  she  failed,  I  should  have  said,  "  The  pearl 

Remains  a  pearl  for  me,  reflects  the  light 

With  the  same  fitness  that  first  charmed  my  gaze — 

Is  worth  as  fine  a  setting  now  as  then. " 

ARMGART  (rising). 

Oh,  you  are  good !     But  why  will  you  rehearse 
The  talk  of  cynics,  who  with  insect  eyes 


ARMGART,  297 

Explore  the  secrets  of  the  rubbish-heap? 
.1  hate  your  epigrams  and  pointed  saws 
Whose  narrow  truth  is  but  broad  falsity. 
Confess  your  friend  was  shallow. 

GRAF. 

I  confess 

Life  is  not  rounded  in  an  epigram, 

And  saying  aught,  we  leave  a  world  unsaid. 

I  quoted,  merely  to  shape  forth  my  thought 

That  high  success  has  terrors  when  achieved — 

Like  preternatural  spouses  whose  dire  love 

Hangs  perilous  on  slight  observances : 

Whence  it  were  possible  that  Armgart  crowned 

Might  turn  and  listen  to  a  pleading  voice, 

Though  Armgart  striving  in  the  race  was  deaf. 

You  said  you  dared  not  think  what  life  had  been 

Without  the  stamp  of  eminence ;  have  you  thought 

How  you  will  bear  the  poise  of  eminence 

With  dread  of  sliding?     Paint  the  future  out 

As  an  unchecked  and  glorious  career, 

'Twill  grow  more  strenuous  by  the  very  love 

You  bear  to  excellence,  the  very  fate 

Of  human  powers,  which  tread  at  every  step 

On  possible  verges. 

ARMGART. 

I  accept  the  peril. 

I  choose  to  walk  high  with  sublimer  dread 
Rather  than  crawl  in  safety.     And,  besides, 
I  am  an  artist  as  you  are  a  noble : 
I  ought  to  bear  the  burden  of  my  rank. 

GRAF. 

Such  parallels,  dear  Armgart,  are  but  snares 
To  catch  the  mind  with  seeming  argument—- 
Small baits  of  likeness  'mid  disparity. 


298  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Men  rise  the  higher  as  their  task  is  high, 
The  task  being  well  achieved.     A  woman's  rank 
Lies  in  the  f ulness  of  her  womanhood ; 
Therein  alone  she  is  royal. 

ARMGART. 

Yes,  I  know 

The  oft-taught  Gospel :  "  Woman,  thy  desire 
Shall  be  that  all  superlatives  on  earth 
Belong  to  men,  save  the  one  highest  kind — 
To  be  a  mother.     Thou  shalt  not  desire 
To  do  aught  best  save  pure  subservience : 
Nature  has  willed  it  so!  "     O  blessed  Nature! 
Let  her  be  arbitress ;  she  gave  me  voice 
Such  as  she  only  gives  a  woman  child, 
Best  of  its  kind,  gave  me  ambition  too, 
That  sense  transcendent  which  can  taste  the  joy 
Of  swaying  multitudes,  of  being  adored 
For  such  achievement,  needed  excellence, 
As  man's  best  art  must  wait  for,  or  be  dumb. 
Men  did  not  say,  when  I  had  sung  last  night, 
"  'Twas  good,  nay,  wonderful,  considering 
She  is  a  woman  " — and  then  to  add, 
"Tenor  or  baritone  had  sung  her  songs 
Better,  of  course:  she's  but  a  woman  spoiled." 
I  beg  your  pardon,  Graf,  you  said  it. 

GRAF. 

No! 

How  should  I  say  it,  Armgart?     I  who  own 

The  magic  of  your  nature-given  art 

As  sweetest  effluence  of  your  womanhood 

Which,  being  to  my  choice  the  best,  must  find 

The  best  of  utterance.     But  this  I  say : 

Your  fervid  youth  beguiles  you ;  you  mistake 

A  strain  of  lyric  passion  for  a  life 

Which  in  the  spending  is  a  chronicle 

With  ugly  pages.     Trust  me,  Armgart,  trust  me  j 


ARMGART.  299 

Ambition  exquisite  as  yours  which  soars 
Toward  something  quintessential  you  call  fame, 
Is  not  robust  enough  for  this  gross  world 
Whose  fame  is  dense  with  false  and  foolish  breath. 
Ardor,  a-twin  with  nice  refining  thought, 
Prepares  a  double  pain.     Pain  had  been  saved, 
Nay,  purer  glory  reached,  had  you  been  throned 
As  woman  only,  holding  all  your  art 
As  attribute  to  that  dear  sovereignty — 
Concentring  your  power  in  home  delights 
Which  penetrate  and  purify  the  world. 

ARMGART. 

What!  leave  the  opera  with  my  part  ill-sung 
While  I  was  warbling  in  a  drawing-room? 
Sing  in  the  chimney-corner  to  inspire 
My  husband  reading  news?     Let  the  world  hear 
My  music  only  in  his  morning  speech 
Less  stammering  than  most  honorable  men's? 
No,  tell  me  that  my  song  is  poor,  my  art 
The  piteous  feat  of  weakness  aping  strength — 
That  were  fit  proem  to  your  argument. 
Till  then,  I  am  an  artist  by  my  birth — 
By  the  same  warrant  that  I  am  a  woman : 
Nay,  in  the  added  rarer  gift  I  see 
Supreme  vocation :  if  a  conflict  comes, 
Perish — no,  not  the  woman,  but  the  joys 
Which  men  make  narrow  by  their  narrowness. 
Oh,  I  am  happy !     The  great  masters  write 
For  women's  voices,  and  great  Music  wants  me! 
I  need  not  crush  myself  within  a  mould 
Of  theory  called  Nature :  I  have  room 
To  breathe  and  grow  un  stunted. 

GRAF. 

Armgart,  hear  me. 

I  meant  not  that  our  talk  should  hurry  on 
To  such  collision.     Foresight  of  the  ills 


300  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Thick  shadowing  your  path,  drew  on  my  speech 

Beyond  intention.     True,  i  came  to  ask 

A  great  renunciation,  but  not  this 

Toward  which  my  words  at  first  perversely  strayed, 

As  if  in  memory  of  their  earlier  suit, 

Forgetful 

Armgart,  do  you  remember  too?  the  suit 
Had  but  postponement,  was  not  quite  disdained — 
Was  told  to  wait  and  learn — what  it  has  learned — 
A  more  submissive  speech. 

ARMGART  (with  some  agitation). 

Then  it  forgot 

Its  lesson  cruelly.     As  I  remember, 
'Twas  not  to  speak  save  to  the  artist  crowned, 
Nor  speak  to  her  of  casting  off  her  crown. 

GRAF. 

Nor  will  it,  Armgart.     I  come  not  to  seek 

Any  renunciation  save  the  wife's, 

Which  turns  away  from  other  possible  love 

Future  and  worthier,  to  take  his  love 

Who  asks  the  name  of  husband.     He  who  sought 

Armgart  obscure,  and  heard  her  answer,  "  Wait " — 

May  come  without  suspicion  now  to  seek 

Armgart  applauded. 

ARMGART  (turning  toward  him). 

Yes,  without  suspicion 

Of  aught  save  what  consists  with  faithf ulness 
In  all  expressed  intent.     Forgive  me,  Graf — 
I  am  ungrateful  to  no  soul  that  loves  me — 
To  you  most  grateful.     Yet  the  best  intent 
Grasps  but  a  living  present  which  may  grow 
Like  any  unfledged  bird.     You  are  a  noble, 
And  have  a  high  career;  just  now  you  said 
'Twas  higher  far  than  aught  a  woman  seeks 


ARMGART.  301 

Beyond  mere  womanhood.     You  claim  to  be 

More  than  a  husband,  but  could  not  rejoice 

That  I  were  more  than  wife.     What  follows,  then? 

You  choosing  me  with  much  persistency 

As  is  but  stretched-out  rashness,  soon  must  find 

Our  marriage  asks  concessions,  asks  resolve 

To  share  renunciation  or  demand  it. 

Either  we  both  renounce  a  mutual  ease, 

As  in  a  nation's  need  both  man  and  wife 

Do  public  services,  or  one  of  us 

Must  yield  that  something  else  for  which  each  lives 

Besides  the  other.     Men  are  reasoners : 

That  premiss  of  superior  claims  perforce 

Urges  conclusion — "  Armgart,  it  is  you." 

GRAF. 

But  if  I  say  I  have  considered  this 

With  strict  prevision,  counted  all  the  cost 

Which  that  great  good  of  loving  you  demands — 

Questioned  my  stores  of  patience,  half  resolved 

To  live  resigned  without  a  bliss  whose  threat 

Touched  you  as  well  as  me — and  finally, 

With  impetus  of  undivided  will 

Returned  to  say,  "  You  shall  be  free  as  now ; 

Only  accept  the  refuge,  shelter,  guard, 

My  love  will  give  your  freedom  " — then  your  words 

Are  hard  accusal. 

ARMGART. 

Well,  I  accuse  myself. 
My  love  would  be  accomplice  of  your  will. 

GRAF. 
Again — my  will? 

ARMGART. 

Oh,  your  unspoken  will. 
Your  silent  tolerance  would  torture  me, 


302  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

And  on  that  rack  I  should  deny  the  good 
I  yet  believed  in. 

GRAF. 

Then  I  am  the  man 
Whom  you  would  love? 

ARMGART. 

Whom  I  refuse  to  love! 
No;  I  will  live  alone  and  pour  my  pain 
With  passion  into  music,  where  it  turns 
To  what  is  best  within  my  better  self. 
I  will  not  take  for  husband  one  who  deems 
The  thing  my  soul  acknowledges  as  good — 
The  thing  I  hold  worth  striving,  suffering  for, 
To  be  a  thing  dispensed  with  easily, 
Or  else  the  idol  of  a  mind  infirm. 

GRAF. 

Armgart,  you  are  ungenerous ;  you  strain 
My  thought  beyond  its  mark.     Our  difference 
Lies  not  so  deep  as  love — as  union 
Through  a  mysterious  fitness  that  transcends 
Formal  agreement. 

ARMGART. 

It  lies  deep  enough 
To  chafe  the  union.     If  many  a  man 
Refrains,  degraded,  from  the  utmost  right, 
Because  the  pleadings  of  his  wife's  small  fears 
Are  little  serpents  biting  at  his  heel, — 
How  shall  a  woman  keep  her  steadfastness 
Beneath  a  frost  within  her  husband's  eyes 
Where  coldness  scorches?     Graf,  it  is  your  sorrow 
That  you  love  Armgart.     Nay,  it  is  her  sorrow 
That  she  may  not  love  you. 


ARMGART.  303 

GRAF. 

Woman,  it  seems, 
Has  enviable  power  to  love  or  not 
According  to  her  will. 

ABMGABT. 

She  has  the  will — 

I  have — who  am  one  woman — not  to  take 
Disloyal  pledges  that  divide  her  will. 
The  man  who  marries  me  must  wed  my  Art — 
Honor  and  cherish  it,  not  tolerate. 

GRAF. 

The  man  is  yet  to  come  whose  theory 

Will  weigh  as  nought  with  you  against  his  love. 

ARMGART. 
Whose  theory  will  plead  beside  his  love. 

GRAF. 

Himself  a  singer,  then?  who  knows  no  life 
Out  of  the  opera  books,  where  tenor  parts 
Are  found  to  suit  him  ? 

ARMGART. 

You  are  bitter,  Graf. 

Forgive  me ;  seek  the  woman  you  deserve, 
All  grace,  all  good,  who  has  not  yet  found 
A  meaning  in  her  life,  nor  any  end 
Beyond  fulfilling  yours.     The  type  abounds. 

GRAF. 
And  happily,  for  the  world. 


304  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

ARMGART. 

Yes,  happily. 

Let  it  excuse  me  that  my  kind  is  rare : 
Commonness  is  its  own  security. 

GRAF. 

Armgart,  I  would  with  all  my  soul  I  knew 
The  man  so  rare  that  he  could  make  your  life 
As  woman  sweet  to  you,  as  artist  safe. 

ARMGART. 

Oh,  I  can  live  unmated,  but  not  live 
Without  the  bliss  of  singing  to  the  world, 
And  feeling  all  my  world  respond  to  me. 

GRAF. 
May  it  be  lasting.     Then,  we  two  must  part? 

ARMGART. 
I  thank  you  from  my  heart  for  all.     Farewell! 


SCENE   III. 
A  YEAR  LATER. 

The  same  Salon.      WALPURGA  is  standing  looking  toward  the 
window  with  an  air  of  uneasiness.     DOCTOR 

DOCTOR. 
Where  is  my  patient,  FrSulein? 


ARMGART.  305 

WALPURGA. 

Fled!  escaped! 
Gone  to  rehearsal.     Is  it  dangerous? 

DOCTOR. 

No,  no;  her  throat  is  cured.     I  only  came 
To  hear  her  try  her  voice.     Had  she  yet  sung? 

WALPURGA. 

No ;  she  had  meant  to  wait  for  you.     She  said, 
"  The  Doctor  has  a  right  to  my  first  song." 
Her  gratitude  was  full  of  little  plans, 
But  all  were  swept  away  like  gathered  flowers 
By  sudden  storm.     She  saw  this  opera  bill — 
It  was  a  wasp  to  sting  her :  she  turned  pale, 
Snatched  up  her  hat  and  mufflers,  said  in  haste, 
"I  go  to  Leo — to  rehearsal — none 
Shall  sing  Fidelio  to-night  but  me !  " 
Then  rushed  down-stairs. 

DOCTOR  (looking  at  his  watch). 

And  this,  not  long  ago? 

WALPURGA. 
Barely  an  hour. 

DOCTOR. 

I  will  come  again, 
Returning  from  Charlottenburg  at  one. 

WALPURGA. 

Doctor,  I  feel  a  strange  presentiment. 
Are  you  quite  easy? 
20 


306  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


DOCTOR. 

She  can  take  no  harm. 

'Twas  time  for  her  to  sing :  her  throat  is  well. 
It  was  a  fierce  attack,  and  dangerous; 
I  had  to  use  strong  remedies,  but — well! 
At  one,  dear  Fraulein,  we  shall  met  again. 


SCENE   IV. 
Two  HOURS  LATER. 

WALPURGA  starts  up,  looking  toivard  the  door.  ARMGART  en- 
ters, followed  by  LEO.  She  throws  herself  on  a  chair  which 
stands  with  its  back  toward  the  door,  speechless,  not  seeming 
to  see  anything.  WALPURGA  casts  a  questioning  terrified 
look  at  LEO.  He  shrugs  his  shoulders,  and  lifts  up  his  hands 
behind  ARMGART,  who  sits  like  a  helpless  image,  while  WAL- 
PURGA takes  off  her  hat  and  mantle. 

WALPURGA. 

Armgart,  dear  Armgart  (kneeling  and  taking  her  hands), 

only  speak  to  me, 

Your  poor  Walpurga.     Oh,  your  hands  are  cold. 
Clasp  mine,  and  warm  them!     I  will  kiss  them  warm. 

(ARMGART  looks  at  her  an  instant,  then  draws  away  her  hands 
and,  turning  aside,  buries  her  face  against  the  back  of  the 
chair,  WALPURGA  rising  and  standing  near.") 

(DOCTOR  GRAHN  enters.) 

DOCTOR. 
News !  stirring  news  to-day !   wonders  come  thick. 


1  Armgart,  dear  Armgart,  only  speak  to  me."-  Page  306. 

Eliot— Armgart. 


ARMGART.  307 

ABMGAKT  (starting  up  at  the  first  sound  of  his  voice,  and  speak- 
ing vehemently]. 

Yes,  thick,  thick,  thick!  and  you  have  murdered  it  I 
Murdered  my  voice — poisoned  the  soul  in  me, 
And  kept  me  living. 
You  never  told  me  that  your  cruel  cures 
Were  clogging  films — a  mouldy,  dead'ning  blight — 
A  lava-mud  to  crust  and  bury  me, 
Yet  hold  me  living  in  a  deep,  deep  tomb, 
Crying  unheard  for  ever !     Oh,  your  cures 
Are  devil's  triumphs :  you  can  rob,  maim,  slay, 
And  keep  a  hell  on  the  other  side  your  cure 
Where  you  can  see  your  victim  quivering 
Between  the  teeth  of  torture — see  a  soul 
Made  keen  by  loss — all  anguish  with  a  good 
Once  known  and  gone!    (Turns  and  sinks  back  on  her 
chair.) 

0  misery,  misery! 

You  might  have  killed  me,  might  have  let  me  sleep 
After  my  happy  day  and  wake — not  here! 
In  some  new  unremembered  world, — not  here, 
Where  all  is  faded,  flat — a  feast  broke  off — 
Banners  all  meaningless — exulting  words 
Dull,  dull — a  drum  that  lingers  in  the  air 
Beating  to  melody  which  no  man  hears. 

DOCTOR  (after  a  moment's  silence). 

A  sudden  check  has  shaken  you,  poor  child! 
All  things  seem  livid,  tottering  to  your  sense, 
From  inward  tumult.     Stricken  by  a  threat 
You  see  your  terrors  only.     Tell  me,  Leo : 
'Tis  not  such  utter  loss. 

(LEO,  with  a  shrug,  goes  quietly  out.) 

The  freshest  bloom 
Merely,  has  left  the  fruit ;  the  fruit  itself  .   .  . 


308  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

ABMGART. 

Is  ruined,  withered,  is  a  thing  to  hide 

Away  from  scorn  or  pity.     Oh,  you  stand 

And  look  compassionate  now,  but  when  Death  came 

With  mercy  in  his  hands,  you  hindered  him. 

I  did  not  choose  to  live  and  have  your  pity. 

You  never  told  me,  never  gave  me  choice 

To  die  a  singer,  lightning-struck,  unmaimed, 

Or  live  what  you  would  make  me  with  your  cures — 

A  self  accursed  with  consciousness  of  change, 

A  mind  that  lives  in  nought  but  members  lopped, 

A  power  turned  to  pain — as  meaningless 

As  letters  fallen  asunder  that  once  made 

A  hymn  of  rapture.     Oh,  I  had  meaning  once, 

Like  day  and  sweetest  air.     What  am  I  now? 

The  millionth  woman  in  superfluous  herds. 

Why  should  I  be,  do,  think?     'Tis  thistle-seed, 

That  grows  and  grows  to  feed  the  rubbish-heap. 

Leave  me  alone ! 

DOCTOR. 

Well,  I  will  come  again; 

Send  for  me  when  you  will,  though  but  to  rate  me. 
That  is  medicinal — a  letting  blood. 

ARMGART. 

Oh,  there  is  one  physician,  only  one, 

Who  cures  and  never  spoils.     Him  I  shall  send  for; 

He  comes  readily. 

DOCTOR  (to  WALPURGA). 

One  word,  dear  Fraulein. 


ARMGART.  309 

SCENE  V. 
ABMGABT,  WALPTJBGA. 

ARMGART. 
Walpurga,  have  you  walked  this  morning? 

WALPUBOA. 

Fa 

ABMGABT. 
Go,  then,  and  walk ;  I  wish  to  be  alone. 

WALPUBGA. 
I  will  not  leave  yon. 

ABMGABT. 

Will  not,  at  my  wish? 

WALPUBGA. 

Will  not,  because  you  wish  it.     Say  no  more, 
But  take  this  draught. 

ARMGABT. 

The  Doctor  gave  it  you? 
It  is  an  anodyne.     Put  it  away. 
He  cured  me  of  my  voice,  and  now  he  wants 
To  cure  me  of  my  vision  and  resolve — 
Drug  me  to  sleep  that  I  may  wake  again 
Without  a  purpose,  abject  as  the  rest 
To  bear  the  yoke  of  life.     He  shall  not  cheat  me 
Of  that  fresh  strength  which  anguish  gives  the  soul, 
The  inspiration  of  revolt,  ere  rage 
Slackens  to  faltering.     Now  I  see  the  truth. 


310  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


WALPUBGA  (setting  down  the  glass) . 

Then  you  must  see  a  future  in  your  reach, 
With  happiness  enough  to  make  a  dower 
For  two  of  modest  claims. 

ABMGART. 

Oh,  you  intone 

That  chant  of  consolation  wherewith  ease 
Makes  itself  easier  in  the  sight  of  pain. 

WALPUBGA. 
No;  I  would  not  console  you,  but  rebuke. 

ABMGART. 

That  is  more  bearable.     Forgive  me,  dear. 
Say  what  you  will.     But  now  I  want  to  write. 

(She  rises  and  moves  toward  a  table. ) 

WALPUBGA. 

I  say  then,  you  are  simply  fevered,  mad ; 
You  cry  aloud  at  horrors  that  would  vanish 
If  you  would  change  the  light,  throw  into  shade 
The  loss  you  aggrandize,  and  let  day  fall 
On  good  remaining,  nay,  on  good  refused 
Which  may  be  gain  now.     Did  you  not  reject 
A  woman's  lot  more  brilliant,  as  some  held, 
Than  any  singer's?     It  may  still  be  yours, 
Graf  Dora  berg  loved  you  well. 

ABMGABT. 

Not  me,  not  me. 

He  loved  one  well  who  was  like  me  in  all 
Save  in  a  voice  which  made  that  All  unlike 
As  diamond  is  to  charcoal.     Oh,  a  man's  love! 


ARMGART.  311 


Think  you  he  loves  a  woman's  inner  self 
Aching  with  loss  of  loveliness? — as  mothers 
Cleave  to  the  palpitating  pain  that  dwells 
Within  their  misformed  offspring? 


WALPURGA. 

But  the  Graf 

Chose  you  as  simple  Armgart — had  preferred 
That  you  should  never  seek  for  any  fame 
But  such  as  matrons  have  who  rear  great  sons. 
And  therefore  you  rejected  him;  but  now — 


ARMGART. 

Ay,  now — now  he  would  see  me  as  I  am, 

(She  takes  up  a  hand-mirror.) 
Russet  and  songless  as  a  missel-thrush. 
An  ordinary  girl — a  plain  brown  girl, 
Who,  if  some  meaning  flash  from  out  her  words, 
Shocks  as  a  disproportioned  thing — a  Will 
That,  like  an  arm  astretch  and  broken  off, 
Has  nought  to  hurl — the  torso  of  a  soul. 
I  sang  him  into  love  of  me :  my  song 
Was  consecration,  lifted  me  apart 
From  the  crowd  chiselled  like  me,  sister  forms. 
But  empty  of  divineness.     Nay,  my  charm 
Was  half  that  I  could  win  fame  yet  renounce! 
A  wife  with  glory  possible  absorbed 
Into  her  husband's  actual. 


WALPURGA. 

For  shame!   • 

Armgart,  you  slander  him.     What  would  you  say 
If  now  he  came  to  you  and  asked  again 
That  you  would  be  his  wife? 


312  POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

AKMGART. 

No,  and  thrice  no ! 

It  would  be  pitying  constancy,  not  love, 
That  brought  him  to  me  now.     I  will  not  be 
A  pensioner  in  marriage.     Sacraments 
Are  not  to  feed  the  paupers  of  the  world. 
If  he  were  generous — I  am  generous  too. 

WALPUBGA. 
Proud,  Armgart,  but  not  generous. 

ARMGART. 

Say  no  more. 
He  will  not  know  until — 

WALPUBGA. 

He  knows  already. 

ABMGART  (quickly). 
Is  he  come  back? 

WALPUBGA. 

Yes,  and  will  soon  be  here. 
The  doctor  had  twice  seen  him  and  would  go 
From  hence  again  to  see  him. 


It  is  all  one. 


AKMGART. 

Well,  he  knows. 


WALPUBGA. 

What  if  he  were  outside? 
I  hear  a  footstep  in  the  ante-room. 


ARMQART.  313 

ARMGART  (raising  herself  and  assuming  calmness). 

Why  let  him  come,  of  course.     I  shall  behave 
Like  what  I  am,  a  common  personage 
Who  looks  for  nothing  but  civility. 
I  shall  not  play  the  fallen  heroine, 
Assume  a  tragic  part  and  throw  out  cues 
For  a  beseeching  lover. 

WALPURGA. 

Some  one  raps. 

(Goes  to  the  door.) 
A  letter— from  the  Graf. 

ARMGART. 

Then  open  it. 

(WALPURGA  still  offers  it. ) 
Kay,  my  head  swims.     Read  it.     I  cannot  see. 

(WALPURGA  opens  it,  reads  and  pauses.) 
Head  it.     Have  done !     No  matter  what  it  is. 

WALPURGA  (reads  in  a  low,  hesitating  voice). 

"  I  am  deeply  moved — my  heart  is  rent,  to  hear  of  your 
illness  and  its  cruel  result,"  just  now  communicated  to  me  by 
Dr.  Grahn.  But  surely  it  is  possible  that  this  result  may  not 
be  permanent.  For  youth  such  as  yours,  Time  may  hold  in 
store  something  more  than  resignation :  who  shall  say  that  it 
does  not  hold  renewal?  I  have  not  dared  to  ask  admission  to 
you  in  the  hours  of  a  recent  shock,  but  I  cannot  depart  on  a 
long  mission  without  tendering  my  sympathy  and  my  farewell. 
I  start  this  evening  for  the  Caucasus,  and  thence  I  proceed  to 
India,  where  I  am  intrusted  by  the  Government  with  business 
which  may  be  of  long  duration." 

(  WAI.PURGA  sits  down  dejectedly. ) 


314  POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

ARMGART  (after  a  slight  shudder,  bitterly) . 

The  Graf  has  much  discretion.     I  am  glad. 

He  spares  us  both  a  pain,  not  seeing  me. 

What  I  like  least  is  that  consoling  hope — 

That  empty  cup,  so  neatly  ciphered  "  Time, " 

Handed  me  as  a  cordial  for  despair. 

(Slowly  and  dreamily)  Time — what  a  word  to  fling  aa 

charity ! 

Bland  neutral  word  for  slow,  dull-beating  pain — 
Days,  months,  and  years ! — If  I  would  wait  for  them. 

(She  takes  up  her  hat  and  puts  it  on,  then  wraps  her 

mantle  round  her.     WALPURGA  leaves  the  room. ) 

Why,  this  is  but  beginning.     (  WALP.  re-enters. )  Kiss  me, 

dear. 

I  am  going  now — alone — out — for  a  walk. 
Say  you  will  never  wound  me  any  more 
With  such  cajolery  as  nurses  use 
To  patients  amorous  of  a  crippled  life. 
Flatter  the  blind :  I  see. 

WALPURGA. 

Well,  I  was  wrong. 

In  haste  to  soothe,  I  snatched  at  flickers  merely. 
Believe  me,  I  will  flatter  you  no  more. 

AKMGAKT. 

Bear  witness,  I  am  calm.     I  read  my  lot 

As  soberly  as  if  it  were  a  tale 

Writ  by  a  creeping  feuilletonist  and  called 

"  The  Woman's  Lot :  a  Tale  of  Everyday  " : 

A  middling  woman's,  to  impress  the  world 

With  high  superfluousness ;  her  thoughts  a  crop 

Of  chick-weed  errors  or  of  pot-herb  facts, 

Smiled  at  like  some  child's  drawing  on  a  slate. 

" Genteel? "     " 0  yes,  gives  lessons;  not  so  good 

As  any  man' s  would  be,  but  cheaper  far. " 

"  Pretty?  "     "  No ;  y^t  she  makes  a  figure  fit 


ARMGART.  316 

For  good  society.     Poor  thing,  she  sews 

Both  late  and  early,  turns  and  alters  all 

To  suit  the  changing  mode.     Some  widower 

Might  do  well,  marrying  her ;  but  in  these  days !  .  .  . 

Well,  she  can  somewhat  eke  her  narrow  gains 

By  writing,  just  to  furnish  her  with  gloves 

And  droschkies  in  the  rain.     They  print  her  th;ngs 

Often  for  charity. " — Oh,  a  dog' s  life ! 

A  harnessed  dog's,  that  draws  a  little  cart 

Voted  a  nuisance !     I  am  going  now. 

WALPUBGA. 

Not  now,jthe  door  is  locked! 

ARMGABT. 

Give  me  the  key ! 

WALPURGA. 

Locked  on  the  outside.     Gretchen  has  the  key : 
She  is  gone  on  errands. 

ARMGART. 

What,  you  dare  to  keep  me 
Your  prisoner? 

WALPURGA. 

And  have  I  not  been  yours? 
Your  wish  has  been  a  bolt  to  keep  me  in. 
Perhaps  that  middling  woman  whom  you  paint 
With  far-off  scorn 

ARMGART. 

I  paint  what  I  must  be ! 
What  is  my  soul  to  me  without  the  voice 
That  gave  it  freedom? — gave  it  one  grand  touch 
And  made  it  nobly  human? — Prisoned  now, 


316  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Prisoned  in  all  the  petty  mimicries 

Called  woman's  knowledge,  that  will  fit  the  world 

As  doll-clothes  fit  a  man.     I  can  do  nought 

Better  than  what  a  million  women  do — 

Must  drudge  among  the  crowd  and  feel  my  life 

Beating  upon  the  world  without  response, 

Beating  with  passion  through  an  insect's  horn 

That  moves  a  millet-seed  laboriously 

If  I  would  do  it ! 


WALPTJRGA  (coldly}. 
And  why  should  you  not? 


ABMGAKT  (  turning  quickly). 

Because  Heaven  made  me  royal — wrought  me  out 

With  subtle  finish  toward  pre-eminence, 

"Made  every  channel  of  my  soul  converge 

To  one  high  function,  and  then  flung  me  down, 

That  breaking  I  might  turn  to  subtlest  pain. 

An  inborn  passion  gives  a  rebel's  right: 

I  would  rebel  and  die  in  twenty  worlds 

Sooner  than  bear  the  yoke  of  thwarted  life, 

Each  keenest  sense  turned  into  keen  distaste, 

Hunger  not  satisfied  but  kept  alive 

Breathing  in  languor  half  a  century. 

All  the  world  now  is  but  a  rack  of  threads 

To  twist  and  dwarf  me  into  pettiness 

And  basely  feigned  content,  the  placid  mask 

Of  women's  misery. 

WALPURGA  (indignantly). 

Ay,  such  a  mask 

As  the  few  born  like  you  to  easy  joy, 
Cradled  in  privilege,  take  for  natural 
On  all  the  lowly  faces  that  must  look 
Upward  to  you !     What  revelation  now 
Shows  you  the  mask  or  gives  presentiment 


ARMGART.  317 

Of  sadness  hidden?     You  who  every  day 

These  five  years  saw  me  limp  to  wait  on  you 

And  thought  the  order  perfect  which  gave  me, 

The  girl  without  pretension  to  be  aught, 

A  splendid  cousin  for  my  happiness : 

To  watch  the  night  through  when  her  brain  was  fired 

With  too  much  gladness — listen,  always  listen 

To  what  she  felt,  who  having  power  had  right 

To  feel  exorbitantly,  and  submerge 

The  souls  around  her  with  the  poured-out  flood 

Of  what  must  be  ere  she  were  satisfied! 

That  was  feigned  patience,  was  it?     Why  not  love, 

Love  nurtured  even  with  that  strength  of  self 

Which  found  no  room  save  in  another's  life? 

Oh,  such  as  I  know  joy  by  negatives, 

And  all  their  deepest  passion  is  a  pang 

Till  they  accept  their  pauper's  heritage, 

And  meekly  live  from  out  the  general  store 

Of  joy  they  were  born  stripped  of.     I  accept — 

Nay,  now  would  sooner  choose  it  than  the  wealth 

Of  natures  you  call  royal,  who  can  live 

In  mere  mock  knowledge  of  their  fellows'  woe, 

Thinking  their  smiles  may  heal  it. 


ARMGART  (tremulously). 

Nay,  Walpurga, 

I  did  not  make  a  palace  of  my  joy 
To  shut  the  world's  truth  from  me.     All  my  good 
Was  that  I  touched  the  world  and  made  a  part 
In  the  world' s  dower  of  beauty,  strength,  and  bliss ; 
It  was  the  glimpse  of  consciousness  divine 
Which  pours  out  day  and  sees  the  day  is  good. 
Now  I  am  fallen  dark ;  I  sit  in  gloom, 
Remembering  bitterly.     Yet  you  speak  truth; 
I  wearied  you,  it  seems ;  took  all  your  help 
As  cushioned  nobles  use  a  weary  serf, 
Not  looking  at  his  face. 


318  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


WALPURGA. 

Oh,  I  but  stand 

As  a  small  symbol  for  the  mighty  sum 
Of  claims  unpaid  to  needy  myriads ; 
I  think  you  never  set  your  loss  beside 
That  mighty  deficit.     Is  your  work  gone — 
The  prouder  queenly  work  that  paid  itself 
And  yet  was  overpaid  with  men's  applause? 
Are  you  no  longer  chartered,  privileged, 
But  sunk  to  simple  woman's  penury, 
To  ruthless  Nature's  chary  average — 
Where  is  the  rebel's  right  for  you  alone? 
Noble  rebellion  lifts  a  common  load ; 
But  what  is  he  who  flings  his  own  load  off 
And  leaves  his  fellows  toiling?     Kebel's  right? 
Say  rather,  the  deserter's.     Oh,  you  smiled 
From  your  clear  height  on  all  the  million  lots 
Which  yet  you  brand  as  abject. 

ARMGART. 

I  was  blind 

With  too  much  happiness :  true  vision  comes 
Only,  it  seems,  with  sorrow.      Were  there  one 
This  moment  near  me,  suffering  what  I  feel, 
And  needing  me  for  comfort  in  her  pang — 
Then  it  were  worth  the  while  to  live;  not  else. 

WALPURGA. 

One — near  you — why,  they  throng!  you  hardly  stir 

But  your  act  touches  them.     We  touch  afar. 

For  did  not  swarthy  slaves  of  yesterday 

Leap  in  their  bondage  at  the  Hebrews'  flight, 

Which  touched  them  through  the  thrice  millennial  dark? 

But  you  can  find  the  sufferer  you  need 

With  touch  less  subtle. 


ARMGART.  319 

ABMOART. 

Who  has  need  of  me? 

WALPUBGA. 
Love  finds  the  need  it  fills.     But  you  are  hard. 

ARMGART. 

Is  it  not  you,  Walpurga,  who  are  hard? 
You  humored  all  my  wishes  till  to-day, 
When  fate  has  blighted  me. 

WALPITRGA. 

You  would  not  hear 

The  "  chant  of  consolation  "  :  words  of  hope 
Only  embittered  you.     Then  hear  the  truth — 
A  lame  girl's  truth,  whom  no  one  ever  praised 
For  being  cheerful.     "  It  is  well, "  they  said : 
"  Were  she  gross-grained  she  could  not  be  endured. " 
A  word  of  truth  from  her  had  startled  you ; 
But  you — you  claimed  the  universe ;  nought  less 
Than  all  existence  working  in  sure  tracks 
Toward  your  supremacy.     The  wheels  might  scathe 
A  myriad  destinies — nay,  must  perforce ; 
But  yours  they  must  keep  clear  of ;  just  for  you 
The  seething  atoms  through  the  firmament 
Must  bear  a  human  heart — which  you  had  not! 
For  what  is  it  to  you  that  women,  men, 
Plod,  faint,  are  weary,  and  espouse  despair 
Of  aught  but  fellowship?     Save  that  you  spurn 
To  be  among  them?     Now,  then,  you  are  lame — 
Maimed,  as  you  said,  and  levelled  with  the  crowd : 
Call  it  new  birth — birth  from  that  monstrous  Self 
Which,  smiling  down  upon  a  race  oppressed, 
Says,  "All  is  good,  for  I  am  throned  at  ease." 
Dear  Armgart — nay,  you  tremble — I  am  cruel. 


320  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

ABMGART. 

0  no!     Hark!     Some  one  knocks.     Come  in! — come  in! 

(Enter  LEO.) 

LEO. 

See,  Gretchen  let  me  in.     I  could  not  rest 
Longer  away  from  you. 

ABMGART. 

Sit  down,  dear  Leo. 
Walpurga,  I  would  speak  with  him  alone 

(WALPUBGA  goes  out.) 

LEO   (hesitatingly). 
You  mean  to  walk? 

ARMGABT. 

No,  I  shall  stay  within. 

(She  takes  off  her  hat  and  mantle,  and  sits  down  imme- 
diately. After  a  pause,  speaking  in  a  subdued  tone 
to  LEO.  ) 

How  old  are  you? 

LEO. 

Threescore  and  five. 

ARMGART. 

That's  old. 

1  never  thought  till  now  how  you  have  lived. 
They  hardly  ever  play  your  music? 

LEO  (raising  his  eyebrows  and  throwing  out  his  lip). 

No! 

Schubert  too  wrote  for  silence :  half  his  work 
Lay  like  a  frozen  Rhine  till  summers  caine 


ARMGART.  321 

That  warmed  the  grass  above  him.     Even  sol 
His  music  lives  now  with  a  mighty  youth. 


ARMGART. 
Do  you  think  youra  will  live  when  you  are  dead? 

LEO. 

Pfui!     The  time  was,  I  drank  that  home-brewed  wine 
And  found  it  heady,  while  my  blood  was  young : 
Now  it  scarce  warms  me.     Tipple  it  as  I  may, 
I  am  sober  still,  and  say :  "  My  old  friend  Leo, 
Much  grain  is  wasted  in  the  world  and  rots; 
Why  not  thy  handful?" 

ARMGART. 

Strange!  since  I  have  known  you 
Till  now  I  never  wondered  how  you  lived. 
When  I  sang  well — that  was  your  jubilee. 
But  you  were  old  already. 


LEO. 

Yes,  child,  yes: 

Youth  thinks  itself  the  goal  of  each  old  life ; 
Age  has  but  travelled  from  a  far-off  time 
Just  to  be  ready  for  youth's  service.     Well! 
It  was  my  chief  delight  to  perfect  you. 


ARMGART. 

Good  Leo!     You  have  lived  on  little  joys. 
But  your  delight  in  me  is  crushed  for  ever. 
Your  pains,  where  are  they  now?     They  shaped  intent 
Which  action  frustrates ;  shaped  an  inward  sense 
21 


322  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Which  is  but  keen  despair,  the  agony 
Of  highest  vision  in  the  lowest  pit. 

LEO. 

Nay,  nay,  I  have  a  thought :  keep  to  the  stage, 
To  drama  without  song ;  for  you  can  act — 
Who  knows  how  well,  when  all  the  soul  is  poured 
Into  that  sluice  alone? 

ARMGART. 

I  know,  and  you : 

The  second  or  third  best  in  tragedies 
That  cease  to  touch  the  fibre  of  the  time. 
No;  song  is  gone,  but  nature's  other  gift, 
Self-judgment,  is  not  gone.      Song  was  my  speech, 
And  with  its  impulse  only,  action  came : 
Song  was  the  battle's  onset,  when  cool  purpose 
Glows  into  rage,  becomes  a  warring  god 
And  moves  the  limbs  with  miracle.     But  now — 
Oh,  I  should  stand  hemmed  in  with  thoughts  and  rules — . 
Say  "  This  way  passion  acts, "  yet  never  feel 
The  might  of  passion.     How  should  I  declaim? 
As  monsters  write  with  feet  instead  of  hands. 
I  will  not  feed  on  doing  great  tasks  ill, 
Dull  the  world's  sense  with  mediocrity, 
And  live  by  trash  that  smothers  excellence. 
One  gift  I  had  that  ranked  me  with  the  best — 
The  secret  of  my  frame — and  that  is  gone. 
For  all  life  now  I  am  a  broken  thing. 
But  silence  there !  Good  Leo,  advise  me  now. 
I  would  take  humble  work  and  do  it  well — 
Teach  music,  singing — what  I  can — not  here, 
But  in  some  smaller  town  where  I  may  bring 
The  method  you  have  taught  me,  pass  your  gift 
To  others  who  can  use  it  for  delight. 
You  think  I  can  do  that? 

(She pauses  with  a  sob  in  her  voice.) 


ARMGART.  323 


LEO. 

Yes,  yes,  dear  child ! 

And  it  were  well,  perhaps,  to  change  the  place — • 
Begin  afresh  as  I  did  when  I  left 
Vienna  with  a  heart  half  broken. 

ARMGART  (roused  by  surprise). 
You? 

LEO. 

Well,  it  is  long  ago.     But  I  had  lost — 
No  matter!     We  must  bury  our  dead  joys 
And  live  above  them  with  a  living  world. 
But  whither,  think  you,  you  would  like  to  go? 

ARMGART. 
To  Freiburg. 

LEO. 

In  the  Breisgau?     And  why  there? 
It  is  too  small. 

ARMGART. 

Walpurga  was  born  there, 
And  loves  the  place.     She  quitted  it  for  me 
These  five  years  past.     Now  I  will  take  her  there. 
Dear  Leo,  I  will  bury  my  dead  joy. 

LEO. 

Mothers  do  so,  bereaved ;  then  learn  to  love 
Another's  living  child. 

ARMGART. 

Oh,  it  is  hard 
To  take  the  little  corpse,  and  lay  it  low, 


324  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

And  say,  "None  misses  it  but  me." 

She  sings  .  .  . 

I  mean  Paulina  sings  Fidelio, 

And  they  will  welcome  her  to-night. 

LEO. 

Well,  well, 
'Tis  better  that  our  griefs  should  not  spread  far. 

1870. 


HOW  LISA   LOVED  THE  KING. 


Six  hundred  years  ago,  in  Dante's  time, 

Before  his  cheek  was  furrowed  by  deep  rhyme — 

When  Europe  fed  afresh  from  Eastern  story, 

Was  like  a  garden  tangled  with  the  glory 

Of  flowers  hand-planted  and  of  flowers  air-sown, 

Climbing  and  trailing,  budding  and  full-blown, 

Where  purple  bells  are  tossed  amid  pink  stars, 

And  springing  blades,  green  troops  in  innocent  wars, 

Crowd  every  shady  spot  of  teeming  earth, 

Making  invisible  motion  visible  birth — 

Six  hundred  years  ago,  Palermo  town 

Kept  holiday.     A  deed  of  great  renown, 

A  high  revenge,  had  freed  it  from  the  yoke 

Of  hated  Frenchmen,  and  from  Calpe's  rock 

To  where  the  Bosporus  caught  the  earlier  sun. 

'Twas  told  that  Pedro,  King  of  Aragon, 

Was  welcomed  master  of  all  Sicily, 

A  royal  knight,  supreme  as  kings  should  be 

In  strength  and  gentleness  that  make  high  chivalry. 

Spain  was  the  favorite  home  of  knightly  grace, 
Where  generous  men  rode  steeds  of  generous  race; 
Both  Spanish,  yet  half  Arab,  both  inspired 
By  mutual  spirit,  that  each  motion  fired 
With  beauteous"  response,  like  minstrelsy 
Afresh  fulfilling  fresh  expectancy. 
So  when  Palermo  made  high  festival, 
The  joy  of  matrons  and  of  maidens  all 
Was  the  mock  terror  of  the  tournament, 
Where  safety,  with  the  glimpse  of  danger  blent, 


326  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELtOT. 

Took  exaltation  as  from  epic  song, 

Which  greatly  tells  the  pains  that  to  great  life  belong. 

And  in  all  eyes  King  Pedro  was  the  king 

Of  cavaliers :  as  in  a  full-gemmed  ring 

The  largest  ruby,  or  as  that  bright  star 

Whose  shining  shows  us  where  the  Hyads  are. 

His  the  best  jennet,  and  he  sat  it  best ; 

His  weapon,  whether  tilting  or  in  rest, 

Was  worthiest  watching,  and  his  face  once  seen 

Gave  to  the  promise  of  his  royal  mien 

Such  rich  fulfilment  as  the  opened  eyes 

Of  a  loved  sleeper,  or  the  long-watched  rise 

Of  vernal  day,  whose  joy  o'  er  stream  and  meadow  flies. 

But  of  the  maiden  forms  that  thick  en  wreathed 

The  broad  piazza  and  sweet  witchery  breathed, 

With  innocent  faces  budding  all  arow 

From  balconies  and  windows  high  and  low, 

Who  was  it  felt  the  deep  mysterious  glow, 

The  impregnation  with  supernal  fire 

Of  young  ideal  love — transformed  desire, 

Whose  passion  is  but  worship  of  that  Best 

Taught  by  the  many-mingled  creed  of  each  young  breast? 

'Twas  gentle  Lisa,  of  no  noble  line, 

Child  of  Bernardo,  a  rich  Florentine, 

Who  from  his  merchant-city  hither  came 

To  trade  in  drugs ;  yet  kept  an  honest  fame, 

And  had  the  virtue  not  to  try  and  sell 

Drugs  that  had  none.     He  loved  his  riches  well, 

But  loved  them  chiefly  for  his  Lisa's  sake, 

Whom  with  a  father's  care  he  sought  to  make 

The  bride  of  some  true  honorable  man : — 

Of  Perdicone  (so  the  rumor  ran), 

Whose  birth  was  higher  than  his  fortunes  were ; 

For  still  your  trader  likes  a  mixture  fair 

Of  blood  that  hurries  to  some  higher  strain 

Than  reckoning  money's  loss  and  money's  gain. 

And  of  such  mixture  good  may  surely  come : 

Lords'  scions  so  may  learn  to  cast  a  sum, 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING.     .  327 

A  trader's  grandson  bear  a  well-set  head, 
And  have  less  conscious  manners,  better  bred; 
Nor,  when  he  tries  to  be  polite,  be  rude  instead. 

'Twas  Perdicone's  friends  mado  overtures 

To  good  Bernardo :  so  one  dame  assures 

Her  neighbor  dame  who  notices  the  youth 

Fixing  his  eyes  on  Lisa ;  and  in  truth 

Eyes  that  could  see  her  on  this  summer  day 

Might  find  it  hard  to  turn  another  way. 

She  had  a  pensive  beauty,  yet  not  sad ; 

Kather,  like  minor  cadences  that  glad 

The  hearts  of  little  birds  amid  spring  boughs ; 

And  oft  the  trumpet  or  the  joust  would  rouse 

Pulses  that  gave  her  cheek  a  finer  glow, 

Parting  her  lips  that  seemed  a  mimic  bow 

By  chiselling  Love  for  play  in  coral  wrought, 

Then  quickened  by  him  with  the  passionate  thought, 

The  soul  that  trembled  in  the  lustrous  night. 

Of  slow  long  eyes.     Her  body  was  so  slight, 

It  seemed  she  could  have  floated  in  the  sky, 

And  with  the  angelic  choir  made  symphony ; 

But  in  her  cheek's  rich  tinge,  and  in  the  dark 

Of  darkest  hair  and  eyes,  she  bore  a  mark 

Of  kinship  to  her  generous  mother  earth, 

The  fervid  land  that  gives  the  plumy  palm-trees  birth. 

She  saw  not  Perdicone ;  her  young  mind 

Dreamed  not  that  any  man  had  ever  pined 

For  such  a  little  simple  maid  as  she : 

She  had  but  dreamed  how  heavenly  it  would  be 

To  love  some  hero  noble,  beauteous,  great, 

Who  would  live  stories  worthy  to  narrate, 

Like  Roland,  or  the  warriors  of  Troy, 

The  Cid,  or  Amadis,  or  that  fair  boy 

Who  conquered  everything  beneath  the  sun, 

And  somehow,  some  time,  died  at  Babylon 

Fighting  the  Moors.     For  heroes  all  were  good 

And  fair  as  that  archangel  who  withstood 

The  Evil  One,  the  author  of  all  wrong — : 


328  .      POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

That  Evil  One  who  made  the  French  so  strong; 

And  now  the  flower  of  heroes  must  be  he 

Who  drove  those  tyrants  from  dear  Sicily, 

So  that  her  maids  might  walk  to  vespers  tranquilly. 

Young  Lisa  saw  this  hero  in  the  king, 

And  as  wood-lilies  that  sweet  odors  bring 

Might  dream  the  light  that  opes  their  modest  eyne 

Was  lily-odored, — and  as  rites  divine, 

Bound  turf -laid  altars,  or  'neath  roofs  of  stone, 

Draw  sanctity  from  out  the  heart  alone 

That  loves  and  worships,  so  the  miniature 

Perplexed  of  her  soul's  world,  all  virgin  pure, 

Filled  with  heroic  virtues  that  bright  form, 

Raona's  royalty,  the  finished  norm 

Of  horsemanship — the  half  of  chivalry : 

For  how  could  generous  men  avengers  be, 

Save  as  God's  messengers  on  coursers  fleet? — 

These,  scouring  earth,  made  Spain  with  Syria  meet 

In  one  self  world  where  the  same  right  had  sway, 

And  good  must  grow  as  grew  the  blessed  day. 

No  more ;  great  Love  his  essence  had  endued 

With  Pedro's  form,  and  entering  subdued 

The  soul  of  Lisa,  fervid  and  intense, 

Proud  in  its  choice  of  proud  obedience 

To  hardship  glorified  by  perfect  reverence. 

Sweet  Lisa  homeward  carried  that  dire  guest, 
And  in  her  chamber  through  the  hours  of  rest 
The  darkness  was  alight  for  her  with  sheen 
Of  arms,  and  plumed  helm,  and  bright  between 
Their  commoner  gloss,  like  the  pure  living  spring 
'Twixt  porphyry  lips,  or  living  bird's  bright  wing 
"Iwixt  golden  wires,  the  glances  of  the  king 
Flashed  on  her  soul,  and  waked  vibrations  there 
Of  known  delights  love-mixed  to  new  and  rare : 
The  impalpable  dream  was  turned  to  breathing  flesh, 
Chill  thought  of  summer  to  the  warm  close  mesh 
Of  sunbeams  held  between  the  citron-leaves, 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING.  329 

Clothing  her  life  of  life.     Oh,  she  believes 

That  she  could  be  content  if  he  but  knew 

(Her  poor  small  self  could  claim  no  other  due) 

How  Lisa's  lowly  love  had  highest  reach 

Of  winged  passion,  whereto  winge.d  speech 

Woxild  be  scorched  remnants  left  by  mounting  flame. 

Though,  had  she  such  lame  message,  were  it  blame 

To  tell  what  greatness  dwelt  in  her,  what  rank 

She  held  in  loving?     Modest  maidens  shrank 

From  telling  love  that  fed  on  selfish  hope; 

But  love,  as  hopeless  as  the  shattering  song 

Wailed  for  loved  beings  who  have  joined  the  throng 

Of  mighty  dead  ones.  .   .  .  Nay,  but  she  was  weak— 

Knew  only  prayers  and  ballads — could  not  speak 

With  eloquence  save  what  dumb  creatures  have, 

That  with  small  cries  and  touches  small  boons  crave. 

She  watched  all  day  that  she  might  see  him  pass 

With  knights  and  ladies;  but  she  said,  "Alas!  " 

Though  he  should  see  me,  it  were  all  as  one 

He  saw  a  pigeon  sitting  on  the  stone 

Of  wall  or  balcony :  some  colored  spot 

His  eye  just  sees,  his  mind  regardeth  not. 

I  have  no  music-touch  that  could  bring  nigh 

My  love  to  his  soul's  hearing.     I  shall  die, 

And  he  will  never  know  who  Lisa  was — 

The  trader's  child,  whose  soaring  spirit  rose 

As  hedge-born  aloe-flowers  that  rarest  years  disclose. 

"  For  were  I  now  a  fair  deep-breasted  queen 
A-horseback,  with  blonde  hair,  and  tunic  green 
Gold-bordered,  like  Costanza,  I  should  need 
No  change  within  to  make  me  queenly  there; 
For  they  the  royal-hearted  women  are 
Who  nobly  love  the  noblest,  yet  have  grace 
For  needy  suffering  lives  in  lowliest  place, 
Carrying  a  choicer  sunlight  in  their  smile, 
The  heavenliest  ray  that  pitieth  the  vile. 
My  love  is  such,  it  cannot  choose  but  soar 
Up  to  the  highest;  yet  for  evermore, 


330  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Though  I  were  happy,  throned  beside  the  king, 

I  should  be  tender  to  each  little  thing 

With  hurt  warm  breast,  that  had  no  speech  to  tell 

Its  inward  pang,  and  I  would  soothe  it  well 

With  tender  touch  and  with  a  low  soft  moan 

For  company :  my  dumb  love-pang  is  lone, 

Prisoned  as  topaz-beam  within  a  rough-garbed  stone." 

So,  inward-wailing,  Lisa  passed  her  days. 

Each  night  the  August  moon  with  changing  phase 

Looked  broader,  harder  on  her  unchanged  pain ; 

Each  noon  the  heat  lay  heavier  again 

On  her  despair;  until  her  body  frail 

Shrank  like  the  snow  that  watchers  in  the  vale 

See  narrowed  on  the  height  each  summer  morn; 

While  her  dark  glance  burnt  larger,  more  forlorn, 

As  if  the  soul  within  her  all  on  fire 

Made  of  her  being  one  swift  funeral  pyre. 

Father  and  mother  saw  with  sad  dismay 

The  meaning  of  their  riches  melt  away : 

For  without  Lisa  what  would  sequins  buy? 

What  wish  were  left  if  Lisa  were  to  die? 

Through  her  they  cared  for  summers  still  to  come, 

Else  they  would  be  as  ghosts  without  a  home 

In  any  flesh  that  could  feel  glad  desire. 

They  pay  the  best  physicians,  never  tire 

Of  seeking  what  will  soothe  her,  promising 

That  aught  she  longed  for,  though  it  were  a  thing 

Hard  to  be  come  at  as  the  Indian  snow, 

Or  roses  that  on  alpine  summits  blow — 

It  should  be  hers.     She  answers  with  low  voice, 

She  longs  for  death  alone — death  is  her  choice; 

Death  is  the  King  who  never  did  think  scorn, 

But  rescues  every  meanest  soul  to  sorrow  born. 

Yet  one  day,  as  they  bent  above  her  bed 
And  watched  her  brief  sleep,  her  drooping  head 
Turned  gently,  as  the  thirsty  flowers  that  feel 
Some  moist  revival  through  their  petals  steal, 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING.  331 

And  little  flutterings  of  her  lids  and  lips 
Told  of  such  dreamy  joy  as  sometimes  dips 
A  skyey  shadow  in  the  mind's  poor  pool. 
She  oped  her  eyes,  and  turned  their  dark  gems  full 
Upon  her  father,  as  in  utterance  dumb 
Of  some  new  prayer  that  in  her  sleep  had  come. 
"  What  is  it,  Lisa?  "     "  Father,  I  would  see 
Minuccio,  the  great  singer;  bring  him  me." 
For  always,  night  and  day,  her  unstilled  thought, 
Wandering  all  o'er  its  little  world,  had  sought 
How  she  could  reach,  by  some  soft  pleading  touch, 
King  Pedro's  soul,  that  she  who  loved  so  much 
Dying,  might  have  a  place  within  his  mind — 
A  little  grave  which  he  would  sometimes  find 
And  plant  some  flower  on  it — some  thought,  some  mem- 
ory kind. 

Till  in  her  dream  she  saw  Minuccio 
Touching  his  viola,  and  chanting  low 
A  strain  that,  falling  on  her  brokenly, 
Seemed  blossoms  lightly  blown  from  off  a  tree, 
Each  burdened  with  a  word  that  was  a  scent — 
Raona,  Lisa,  love,  death,  tournament; 
Then  in  her  dream  she  said,  "  He  sings  of  me — 
Might  be  my  messenger ;  ah,  now  I  see 
The  king  is  listening —       Then  she  awoke, 
And,   missing  her  dear  dream,   that    new-born    longing 
spoke. 

She  longed  for  music :  that  was  natural ; 

Physicians  said  it  was  medicinal ; 

The  humors  might  be  schooled  by  true  consent 

Of  a  fine  tenor  and  fine  instrument; 

In  brief,  good  music,  mixed  with  doctor's  stuff, 

Apollo  with  Asklepios — enough! 

Minuccio,  entreated,  gladly  came. 

(He  was  a  singer  of  most  gentle  fame — 

A  noble,  kindly  spirit,  not  elate 

That  he  was  famous,  but  that  song  was  great — 

Would  sing  as  finely  to  this  suffering  child 


3S2  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

As  at  the  court  where  princes  on  him  smiled. ) 

Gently  he  entered  and  sat  down  by  her, 

Asking  what  sort  of  strain  she  would  prefer — 

The  voice  alone,  or  voice  with  viol  wed; 

Then,  when  she  chose  the  last,  he  preluded 

With  magic  hand,  that  summoned  from  the  strings 

Aerial  spirits,  rare  yet  vibrant  wings 

That  fanned  the  pulses  of  his  listener, 

And  waked  each  sleeping  sense  with  blissful  stir. 

Her  cheek  already  showed  a  slow  faint  blush, 

But  soon  the  voice,  in  pure  full  liquid  rush, 

Made  all  the  passion,  that  till  now  she  felt, 

Seem  but  cool  waters  that  in  warmer  melt. 

Finished  the  song,  she  prayed  to  be  alone 

With  kind  Minuccio;  for  her  faith  had  grown 

To  trust  him  as  if  missioned  like  a  priest 

With  some  high  grace,  that  when  his  singing  ceased 

Still  made  him  wiser,  more  magnanimous 

Than  common  men  who  had  no  genius. 

So  laying  her  small  hand  within  his  palm, 

She  told  him  how  that  secret  glorious  harm 

Of  loftiest  loving- had  befallen  her; 

That  death,  her  only  hope,  most  bitter  were, 

If  when  she  died  her  love  must  perish  too 

As  songs  unsung  and  thoughts  unspoken  do, 

Which  else  might  live  within  another  breast. 

She  said,  "  Minuccio,  the  grave  were  rest, 

If  I  were  sure,  that  lying  cold  and  lone, 

My  love,  my  best  of  life,  had  safely  flown 

And  nestled  in  the  bosom  of  the  king ; 

See,  'tis  a  small  weak  bird,  with  unfledged  wing. 

But  you  will  carry  it  for  me  secretly, 

And  bear  it  to  the  king,  then  come  to  me 

And  tell  me  it  is  safe,  and  I  shall  go 

Content,  knowing  that  he  I  love  my  love  doth  know." 

Then  she  wept  silently,  but  each  large  tear 
Made  pleading  music  to  the  inward  ear 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING.  833 

Of  good  Minuccio.     "  Lisa,  trust  in  me, " 

He  said,  and  kissed  her  fingers  loyally; 

"  It  is  sweet  law  to  me  to  do  your  will, 

And  ere  the  sun  his  round  shall  thrice  fulfil, 

I  hope  to  bring  you  news  of  such  rare  skill 

As  amulets  have,  that  aches  in  trusting  bosoms  still. " 

He  needed  not  to  pause  and  first  devise 
How  he  should  tell  the  king ;  for  in  nowise 
Were  such  love-message  worthily  bested 
Save  in  fine  verse  by  music  rendered. 
He  sought  a  poet-friend,  a  Siennese, 
And  "Mico,  mine,"  he  said,  "full  oft  to  please 
Thy  whim  of  sadness  I  have  sung  thee  strains 
To  make  thee  weep  in  verse :  now  pay  my  pains, 
And  write  me  a  canzon  divinely  sad, 
Sinlessly  passionate  and  meekly  mad 
With  young  despair,  speaking  a  maiden's  heart 
Of  fifteen  summers,  who  would  fain  depart 
From  ripening  life's  new-urgent  mystery — 
Love-choice  of  one  too  high  her  love  to  be — 
But  cannot  yield  her  breath  till  she  has  poured 
Her  strength  away  in  this  hot-bleeding  word 
Telling  the  secret  of  her  soul  to  her  soul's  lord." 

Said  Mico,  "  Nay,  that  thought  is  poesy, 

I  need  but  listen  as  it  sings  to  me. 

Come  thou  again  to-morrow."     The  third  day. 

When  linked  notes  had  perfected  the  lay, 

Minuccio  had  his  summons  to  the  court 

To  make,  as  he  was  wont,  the  moments  short 

Of  ceremonious  dinner  to  the  king. 

This  was  the  time  when  he  had  meant  to  bring 

Melodious  message  of  young  Lisa's  love: 

He  waited  till  the  air  had  ceased  to  move 

To  ringing  silver,  till  Falernian  wine 

Made  quickened  sense  with  quietude  combine, 

And  then  with  passionate  descant  made  each  ear  incline. 


334  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Love,  thoii  didst  see  me,' light  as  morning's  breath, 
Roaming  a  garden  in  a  joyous  error, 
Laughing  at  chases  vain,  a  happy  child, 
Till  of  thy  countenance  the  alluring  terror 
In  majesty  from  out  the  blossoms  smiled, 
From  out  their  life  seeming  a  beauteous  Death. 

0  Love,  ivho  so  did,st  choose  me  for  thine  own, 

Taking  this  little  isle  to  thy  great  sway, 

See  now,  it  is  the  honor  of  thy  throne 

That  what  thou  gavest  perish  not  away, 

Nor  leave  some  sweet  remembrance  to  atone 

By  life  that  will  be  for  the  brief  life  gone : 

Hear,  ere  the  shroud  o'er  these  frail  limbs  be  thrown — 

Since  every  king  is  vassal  unto  thee, 

My  heart's  lord  needs  must  listen  loyally — 

0  tell  him  I  am  waiting  for  my  Death  ! 

Tell  him,  for  that  he  hath  such  royal  power 

'  Twere  hard  for  him  to  think  how  small  a  thing, 

How  slight  a  sign,  would  make  a  wealthy  dower 

For  one  like  me,  the  bride  of  that  pale  king 

Whose  bed  is  mine  at  some  swift-nearing  hour. 

Go  to  my  lord,  and  to  his  memory  bring 

That  happy  birthday  of  my  sorrowing 

When  his  large  glance  made  meaner  gazers  glad, 

Entering  the  bannered  lists  :  '  twos  then  I  had 

The  ivound  that  laid  me  in  the  arms  of  Death. 

Tell  him,  0  Love,  I  am  a  lowly  maid, 
JNo  more  than  any  little  knot  of  thyme 
That  he  with  careless  foot  may  often  tread  ; 
Yet  lowest  fragrance  oft  will  mount  sublime 
And  cleave  to  things  most  high  and  hallowed, 
As  doth  the  fragrance  of  my  life's  springtime, 
My  lowly  love,  that  soaring  seeks  to  climb 
Within  his  thought,  and  make  a  gentle  bliss, 
More  blissful  than  if  mine,  in  being  his: 
So  shall  I  live  in  him  and  rest  in  Death. 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING.  335 

The  strain  was  new.     It  seemed  a  pleading  cry, 

And  yet  a  rounded  perfect  melody, 

Making  grief  beauteous  as  the  tear-filled  eyes 

Of  little  child  at  little  miseries. 

Trembling  at  first,  then  swelling  as  it  rose, 

Like  rising  light  that  broad  and  broader  grows, 

It  filled  the  hall,  and  so  possessed  the  air 

That  not  one  breathing  soul  was  present  there, 

Though  dullest,  slowest,  but  was  quivering 

In  music's  grasp,  and  forced  to  hear  her  sing. 

But  most  such  sweet  compulsion  took  the  mood 

Of  Pedro  (tired  of  doing  what  he  would). 

Whether  the  words  which  that  strange  meaning  bore 

Were  but  the  poet's  feigning  or  aught  more, 

Was  bounden  question,  since  their  aim  must  be 

At  some  imagined  or  true  royalty. 

He  called  Minuccio  and  bade  him  tell 

What  poet  of  the  day  had  writ  so  well ; 

For  though  they  came  behind  all  former  rhymes, 

The  verses  were  not  bad  for  these  poor  times. 

"Monsignor,  they  are  only  three  days  old," 

Minuccio  said ;  "  but  it  must  not  be  told 

How  this  song  grew,  save  to  your  royal  ear." 

Eager,  the  king  withdrew  where  none  was  near, 

And  gave  close  audience  to  Minuccio, 

Who  meetly  told  that  love-tale  meet  to  know. 

The  king  had  features  pliant  to  confess 

The  presence  of  a  manly  tenderness — 

Son,  father,  brother,  lover,  blent  in  one, 

In  fine  harmonic  exaltation — 

The  spirit  of  religious  chivalry. 

He  listened,  and  Minuccio  could  see 

The  tender,  generous  admiration  spread 

O'er  all  his  face,  and  glorify  his  head 

With  royalty  that  would  have  kept  its  rank 

Though  his  brocaded  robes  to  tatters  shrank. 

He  answered  without  pause,  "  So  sweet  a  maid, 

In  nature's  own  insignia  arrayed, 

Though  she  were  come  of  unmixed  trading  blood 


336  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

That  sold  and  bartered  ever  since  the  Flood, 
Would  have  the  self-contained  and  single  worth 
Of  radiant  jewels  born  in  darksome  earth. 
Eaona  were  a  shame  to  Sicily, 
Letting  such  love  and  tears  unhonored  be : 
Hasten,  Miiiuccio,  tell  her  that  the  king 
To-day  will  surely  visit  her  when  vespers  ring.n 

Joyful,  Minuccio  bore  the  joyous  word, 
And  told  at  full,  while  none  but  Lisa  heard, 
How  each  thing  had  befallen,  sang  the  song, 
And  like  a  patient  nurse  who  would  prolong 
All  means  of  soothing,  dwelt  upon  each  tone, 
Each  look,  with  which  the  mighty  Aragon 
Marked  the  high  worth  his  royal  heart  assigned 
To  that  dear  place  he  held  in  Lisa' s  mind. 
She  listened  till  the  draughts  of  pure  content 
Through  all  her  limbs  like  some  new  being  went— * 
Life,  not  recovered,  but  untried  before, 
From  out  the  growing  world's  unmeasured  store 
Of  fuller,  better,  more  divinely  mixed. 
'Twas  glad  reversed:  she  had  so  firmly  fixed 
To  die,  already  seemed  to  fall  a  veil 
Shrouding  the  inner  glow  from  light  of  senses  pale. 

Her  parents  wondering  see  her  half  arise — 

Wondering,  rejoicing,  see  her  long  dark  eyes 

Brimful  with  clearness,  not  of  'scaping  tears, 

But  of  some  light  ethereal  that  enspheres 

Their  orbs  with  calm,  some  vision  newly  learnt 

Where  strangest  fires  erewhile  had  blindly  burnt. 

She  asked  to  have  her  soft  white  robe  and  band 

And  coral  ornaments,  and  with  her  hand 

She  gave  her  lock's  dark  length  a  backward  fall, 

Then  looked  intently  in  a  mirror  small, 

And  feared  her  face  might  perhaps  displease  the  king; 

"In  truth,"  she  said,  "I  am  a  tiny  thing; 

I  was  too  bold  to  tell  what  could  such  visit  bring." 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING.  337 

Meanwhile  the  king,  revolving  in  his  thought 
That  virgin  passion,  was  more  deeply  wrought 
To  chivalrous  pity ;  and  at  vesper  bell, 
With  careless  mien  which  hid  his  purpose  well, 
Went  forth  on  horseback,  and  as  if  by  chance 
Passing  Bernardo's  house,  he  paused  to  glance 
At  the  tine  garden  of  this  wealthy  man, 
This  Tuscan  trader  turned  Palermitan : 
But,  presently  dismounting,  chose  to  walk 
Amid  the  trellises,  in  gracious  talk 
With  this  same  trader,  deigning  even  to  ask 
If  he  had  yet  fulfilled  the  father's  task 
Of  marrying  that  daughter  whose  young  charms 
Himself,  betwixt  the  passages  of  arms, 
Noted  admiringly.     "  Monsignor,  no, 
She  is  not  married ;  that  were  little  woe, 
Since  she  has  counted  barely  fifteen  years ; 
But  all  such  hopes  of  late  have  turned  to  fears; 
She  droops  and  fades ;  though  for  a  space  quite  brief — 
Scarce  three  hours  past — she  finds  some  strange  relief." 
The  king  avised :  "  'Twere  dole  to  all  of  us, 
The  world  should  lose  a  maid  so  beauteous ; 
Let  me  now  see  her ;  since  I  am  her  liege  lord, 
Her  spirits  must  wage  war  with  death  at  my  strong  word. " 
In  such  half-serious  playfulness,  he  wends, 
With  Lisa's  father  aud  two  chosen  friends, 
Up  to  the  chamber  where  she  pillowed  sits 
Watching  the  open  door,  that  now  admits 
A  presence  as  much  better  than  her  dreams, 
As  happiness  than  any  longing  seems. 
The  king  advanced,  and,  with  a  reverent  kiss 
Upon  her  hand,  said,  "Lady,  what  is  this? 
You,  whose  sweet  youth  should  others'  solace  be, 
Pierce  all  our  hearts,  languishing  piteously. 
We  pray  you,  for  the  love  of  us,  be  cheered, 
Nor  be  too  reckless  of  that  life,  endeared 
To  us  who  know  your  passing  worthiness, 
And  count  your  blooming  life  as  part  of  our  life's  bliss." 
Those  words,  that  touch  upon  her  hand  from  him 
22 


338  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Whom  her  soul  worshipped,  as  far  seraphim 

Worship  the  distant  glory,  brought  some  shame 

Quivering  upon  her  cheek,  yet  thrilled  her  frame 

With  such  deep  joy  she  seemed  in  paradise, 

In  wondering  gladness,  and  in  dumb  surprise 

That  bliss  could  be  so  blissful :  then  she  spoke — 

"  Signor,  I  was  too  weak  to  bear  the  yoke, 

The  golden  yoke  of  thoughts  too  great  for  me; 

That  was  the  ground  of  my  infirmity. 

But  now,  I  pray  your  grace  to  have  belief 

That  I  shall  soon  be  well,  nor  any  more  cause  grief. 

The  king  alone  perceived  the  covert  sense 
Of  all  her  words,  which  made  one  evidence 
With  her  pure  voice  and  candid  loveliness, 
That  he  had  lost  much  honor,  honoring  less 
That  message  of  her  passionate  distress. 
He  stayed  beside  her  for  a  little  while 
With  gentle  looks  and  speech,  until  a  smile 
As  placid  as  a  ray  of  early  morn 
On  opening  flower-cups  o'er  her  lips  was  born. 
When  he  had  left  her,  and  the  tidings  spread 
Through  all  the  town  how  he  had  visited 
The  Tuscan  trader's  daughter,  who  was  sick, 
Men  said,  it  was  a  royal  deed  and  catholic. 

And  Lisa?  she  no  longer  wished  for  death; 

But  as  a  poet,  who  sweet  verses  saith 

Within  his  soul,  and  joys  in  music  there, 

Nor  seeks  another  heaven,  nor  can  bear 

Disturbing  pleasures,  so  was  she  content 

Breathing  the  life  of  grateful  sentiment. 

She  thought  no  maid  betrothed  could  be  more  blest; 

For  treasure  must  be  valued  by  the  test 

Of  highest  excellence  and  rarity, 

And  her  dear  joy  was  best  as  best  could  be; 

There  seemed  no  other  crown  to  her  delight 

Now  the  high  loved  one  saw  her  love  aright. 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING.  339 

Thus  her  soul  thriving  on  that  exquisite  mood, 

Spread  like  the  May -time  all  its  beauteous  good 

O'er  the  soft  bloom  of  neck,  and  arms,  and  cheek, 

And  strengthened  the  sweet  body,  once  so  weak, 

Until  she  rose  and  walked,  and,  like  a  bird 

With  sweetly  rippling  throat,  she  made  her  spring  joys 

heard. 

The  king,  when  he  the  happy  change  had  seen, 
Trusted  the  ear  of  Constance,  his  fair  queen, 
With  Lisa's  innocent  secret,  and  conferred 
How  they  should  jointly,  by  their  deed  and  word, 
Honor  this  maiden's  love,  which,  like  the  prayer 
Of  loyal  hermits,  never  thought  to  share 
In  what  it  gave.     The  queen  had  that  chief  grace 
Of  womanhood,  a  heart  that  can  embrace 
All  goodness  in  another  woman's  form; 
And  that  same  day,  ere  the  sun  lay  too  warm 
On  southern  terraces,  a  messenger 
Informed  Bernardo  that  the  royal  pair 
Would  straightway  visit  him  and  celebrate 
Their  gladness  at  his  daughter's  happier  state, 
Which  they  were  fain  to  see.     Soon  came  the  king 
On  horseback,  with  his  barons,  heralding 
The  advent  of  the  queen  in  courtly  state; 
And  all,  descending  at  the  garden  gate, 
Streamed  with  their  feathers,  velvet,  and  brocade, 
Through  the  pleached  alleys,  till  they,  pausing,  made 
A  lake  of  splendor  'mid  the  aloes  gray — 
When,  meekly  facing  all  their  proud  array, 
The  white-robed  Lisa  with  her  parents  stood, 
As  some  white  dove  before  the  gorgeous  brood 
Of  dapple-breasted  birds  borne  by  the  Colchian  flood. 

The  king  and  queen,  by  gracious  looks  and  speech, 
Encouraged  her,  and  thus  their  courtiers  teach 
How  this  fair  morning  they  may  courtliest  be 
By  making  Lisa  pass  it  happily. 
And  soon  the  ladies  and  the  barons  all 
Draw  her  by  turns,  as  at  a  festival 


340  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

*Made  for  her  sake,  to  easy,  gay  discourse, 
And  compliment  with  looks  and  smiles  enforce; 
A  joyous  hum  is  heard  the  gardens  round; 
Soon  there  is  Spanish  dancing  and  the  sound 
Of  minstrel's  song,  and  autumn  fruits  are  pluckt; 
Till  mindfully  the  king  and  queen  conduct 
Lisa  apart  to  where  a  trellised  shade 
Made  pleasant  resting.     Then  King  Pedro  said — 
"  Excellent  maiden,  that  rich  gift  of  love 
Your  heart  hath  made  us,  hath  a  worth  above 
All  royal  treasures,  nor  is  fitly  met 
Save  when  the  grateful  memory  of  deep  debt 
Lies  still  behind  the  outward  honors  done : 
And  as  a  sign  that  no  oblivion 
Shall  overflood  that  faithful  memory, 
We  while  we  live  your  cavalier  will  be, 
Nor  will  we  ever  arm  ourselves  for  fight, 
Whether  for  struggle  dire  or  brief  delight 
Of  warlike  feigning,  but  we  first  will  take 
The  colors  you  ordain,  and  for  your  sake 
Charge  the  more  bravely  where  your  emblem  is ; 
]STor  will  we  ever  claim  an  added  bliss 
To  our  sweet  thoughts  of  you  save  one  sole  kiss. 
But  there  still  rests  the  outward  honor  meet 
To  mark  your  worthiness,  and  we  entreat 
That  you  will  turn  your  ear  to  proffered  vows 
Of  one  who  loves  you,  and  would  be  your  spouse. 
We  must  not  wrong  yourself  and  Sicily 
By  letting  all  your  blooming  years  pass  by 
Unmated :  you  will  give  the  world  its  due 
From  beauteous  maiden  and  become  a  matron  true." 

Then  Lisa  wrapt  in  virgin  wonderment 
At  her  ambitious  love's  complete  content, 
Which  left  no  further  good  for  her  to  seek 
Than  love's  obedience,  said  with  accent  meek — 
"  Monsignor,  I  know  well  that  were  it  known 
To  all  the  world  how  high  my  love  had  flown, 
There  would  be  few  who  would  not  deem  me  mad, 


HOW  LISA  LOVED  THE  KING.  341 

Or  say  my  mind  the  falsest  image  had 

Of  my  condition  and  your  lofty  place. 

But  heaven  has  seen  that  for  no  moment's  space 

Have  I  forgotten  you  to  be  the  king, 

Or  me  myself  to  be  a  lowly  thing — 

A  little  lark,  enamoured  of  the  sky, 

That  soared  to  sing,  to  break  its  breast,  and  die. 

But,  as  you  better  know  than  I,  the  heart 

In  choosing  chooseth  not  its  own  desert, 

But  that  great  merit  which  attracteth  it; 

"Tis  law,  I  struggled,  but  I  must  submit, 

And  having  seen  a  worth  all  worth  above, 

I  loved  you,  love  you,  and  shall  always  love. 

But  that  doth  mean,  my  will  is  ever  yours, 

Not  only  when  your  will  my  good  insures, 

But  if  it  wrought  me  what  the  world  calls  barm — 

Fire,  wounds,  would  wear  from  your  dear  will  a  charm 

That  you  will  be  my  knight  is  full  content, 

And  for  that  kiss — I  pray,  first  for  the  queen's  consent." 

Her  answer,  given  with  such  firm  gentleness, 
Pleased  the  queen  well,  and  made  her  bold  no  less 
Of  Lisa's  merit  than  the  king  had  held. 
And  so,  all  cloudy  threats  of  grief  dispelled, 
There  was  betrothal  made  that  very  morn 
'Twixt  Perdicone,  youthful,  brave,  well-born, 
And  Lisa,  whom  he  loved ;  she  loving  well 
The  lot  that  from  obedience  befell. 
The  queen  a  rare  betrothal  ring  on  each 
Bestowed,  and  other  gems,  with  gracious  speech. 
And  that  no  joy  might  lack,  the  king  who  knew 
The  youth  was  poor,  gave  him  rich  Ceffalu 
And  Cataletta,  large  and  fruitful  lands — 
Adding  much  promise  when  he  joined  their  hands. 
As  last  he  said  to  Lisa,  with  an  air 
Gallant  yet  noble :  "  Now  we  claim  our  share 
From  your  sweet  love,  a  share  which  is  not  small: 
For  in  the  sacrament  one  crumb  is  all." 
Then  taking  her  small  face  his  hands  between, 


342  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

He  kissed  her  on  the  brow  with  kiss  serene, 

Fit  seal  to  that  pure  vision  her  young  soul  had  seen. 

Sicilians  witnessed  that  King  Pedro  kept 
His  royal  promise :  Perdicone  stept 
To  many  honors  honorably  won, 
Living  with  Lisa  in  true  union. 
Throughout  his  life  the  king  still  took  delight 
To  call  himself  fair  Lisa's  faithful  knight; 
And  never  wore  in  field  or  tournament 
A  scarf  or  emblem  save  by  Lisa  sent. 

Such  deeds  made  subjects  loyal  in  that  land: 

They  joyed  that  one  so  worthy  to  command, 

So  chivalrous  and  gentle,  had  become 

The  king  of  Sicily,  and  filled  the  room 

Of  Frenchmen,  who  abused  the  Church's  trust, 

Till,  in  a  righteous  vengeance  on  their  lust, 

Messina  rose,  with  God,  and  with  the  dagger's  thrust 

L'ENVOI. 

Header,  this  story  pleased  me  long  ago 

In  the  bright  pages  of  Boccaccio, 

And  where  the  author  of  a  good  we  know, 

Let  us  not  fail  to  pay  the  grateful  thanks  we  owe. 

1869. 


A  MINOR  P.ROPHET. 


I  HAVE  a  friend,  a  vegetarian  seer, 

By  name  Elias  Baptist  Butterworth, 

A  harmless,  bland,  disinterested  man, 

Whose  ancestors  in  Cromwell's  day  believed 

The  Second  Advent  certain  in  five  years, 

But  when  King  Charles  the  Second  came  instead, 

Revised  their  date  and  sought  another  world : 

I  mean — not  heaven  but — America. 

A  fervid  stock,  whose  generous  hope  embraced 

The  fortunes  of  mankind,  not  stopping  short 

At  rise  of  leather,  or  the  fall  of  gold, 

Nor  listening  to  the  voices  of  the  time 

As  housewives  listen  to  a  cackling  hen, 

With  wonder  whether  she  has  laid  her  egg 

On  their  own  nest-egg.      Still  they  did  insist 

Somewhat  too  wearisomely  on  the  joys 

Of  their  Millennium,  when  coats  and  hats 

Would  all  be  of  one  pattern,  books  and  songs 

All  fit  for  Sundays,  and  the  casual  talk 

As  good  as  sermons  preached  extempore. 

And  in  Elias  the  ancestral  zeal 

Breathes  strong  as  ever,  only  modified 

By  Transatlantic  air  and  modern  thought. 

You  could  not  pass  him  in  the  street  and  fail 

To  note  his  shoulder's  long  declivity, 

Beard  to  the  waist,  swan-neck,  and  large  pale  eyes ; 

Or,  when  he  lifts  his  hat,  to  mark  his  hair 

Brushed  back  to  show  his  great  capacity — 


344  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

A  full  grain's  length  at  the  angle  of  the  brow 

Proving  him  witty,  while  the  shallower  men 

Only  seem  witty  in  their  repartees. 

Not  that  he's  vain,  but  that  his  doctrine  needs 

The  testimony  of  his  frontal  lobe. 

On  all  points  he  adopts  the  latest  views; 

Takes  for  the  key  of  universal  Mind 

The  "  levitation  "  of  stout  gentlemen ; 

Believes  the  Rappings  are  not  spirits'  work, 

But  the  Thought-atmosphere's,  a  steam  of  brains 

In  correlated  force  of  raps,  as  proved 

By  motion,  heat, .  and  science  generally ; 

The  spectrum,  for  example,  which  has  shown 

The  self-same  metals  in  the  sun  as  here; 

So  the  Thought-atmosphere  is  everywhere : 

High  truths  that  glimmered  under  other  names 

To  ancient  sages,  whence  good  scholarship 

Applied  to  Eleusinian  mysteries — 

The  Vedas — Tripitaka — Vendidad — 

Might  furnish  weaker  proof  for  weaker  minds 

That  Thought  was  rapping  in  the  hoary  past, 

And  might  have  edified  the  Greeks  by  raps 

At  the  greater  Dionysia,  if  their  ears 

Had  not  been  filled  with  Sophoclean  verse. 

And  when  all  Earth  is  vegetarian — 

When,  lacking  butchers,  quardrupeds  die  out, 

And  less  Thought-atmosphere  is  reabsorbed 

By  nerves  of  insects  parasitical, 

Those  higher  truths,  seized  now  by  higher  minds 

But  not  expressed  (the  insects  hindering) 

Will  either  flash  out  into  eloquence, 

Or  better  still,  be  comprehensible 

By  rappings  simply,  without  need  of  roots. 

'Tis  on  this  theme — the  vegetarian  world — 

That  good  Elias  willingly  expands : 

He  loves  to  tell  in  mildly  nasal  tones 

And  vowels  stretched  to  suit  the  widest  views, 

The  future  fortunes  of  our  infant  earth — 


A  MINOR  PROPHET.  345 

When  it  will  be  too  full  of  human  kind 

To  have  the  room  for  wilder  animals. 

Saith  he,  Sahara  will  be  populous 

With  families  of  gentlemen  retired 

From  commerce  in  more  Central  Africa, 

Who  order  coolness  as  we  order  coal, 

And  have  a  lobe  anterior  strong  enough 

To  think  away  the  sand-storms.     Science  thus 

Will  leave  no  spot  on  this  terraqueous  globe 

Unfit  to  be  inhabited  by  man, 

The  chief  of  animals :  all  meaner  brutes 

Will  have  been  smoked  and  elbowed  out  of  life. 

No  lions  then  shall  lap  Caffrarian  pools, 

Or  shake  the  Atlas  with  their  midnight  roar : 

Even  the  slow,  slime-loving  crocodile, 

The  last  of  animals  to  take  a  hint, 

Will  then  retire  for  ever  from  a  scene 

Where  public  feeling  strongly  sets  against  him. 

Fishes  may  lead  carnivorous  lives  obscure, 

But  must  not  dream  of  culinary  rank 

Or  being  dished  in  good  society. 

Imagination  in  that  distant  age, 

Aiming  at  fiction  called  historical, 

Will  vainly  try  to  reconstruct  the  times 

When  it  was  men's  preposterous  delight 

To  sit  astride  live  horses,  which  consumed 

Materials  for  incalculable  cakes ; 

When  there  were  milkmaids  who  drew  milk  from  cows 

With  udders  kept  abnormal  for  that  end 

Since  the  rude  mythoposic  period 

Of  Aryan  dairymen,  who  did  not  blush 

To  call, their  milkmaid  and  their  daughter  one — • 

Helplessly  gazing  at  the  Milky  Way, 

Nor  dreaming  of  the  astral  cocoa-nuts 

Quite  at  the  service  of  posterity. 

'Tis  to  be  feared,  though,  that  the  duller  boys, 

Much  given  to  anachronisms  and  nuts, 

(Elias  has  confessed  boys  will  be  boys) 

May  write  a  jocky  for  a  centaur,  think 


346  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Europa's  suitor  was  an  Irish  bull, 

-<Esop  a  journalist  who  wrote  up  Fox, 

And  Bruin  a  chief  swindler  upon  'Change. 

Boys  will  be  boys,  but  dogs  will  all  be  moral, 

With  longer  alimentary  canals 

Suited  to  diet  vegetarian. 

The  uglier  breeds  will  fade  from  memory, 

Or,  being  palaeontological, 

Live  but  as  portraits  in  large  learned  books, 

Distasteful  to  the  feelings  of  an  age 

Nourished  on  purest  beauty.     Earth  will  hold 

No  stupid  brutes,  no  cheerful  queernesses, 

No  naive  cunning,  grave  absurdity. 

Wart-pigs  with  tender  and  parental  grunts, 

Wombats  much  flattened  as  to  their  contour, 

Perhaps  from  too  much  crushing  in  the  ark, 

But  taking  meekly  that  fatality ; 

The  serious  cranes,  unstung  by  ridicule ; 

Long-headed,  short-legged,  solemn-looking  curs, 

(Wise,  silent  critics  of  a  flippant  age) ; 

The  silly  straddling  foals,  the  weak-brained  geese 

Hissing  fallaciously  at  sound  of  wheels — 

All  these  rude  products  will  have  disappeared 

Along  with  every  faulty  human  type. 

By  dint  of  diet  vegetarian 

All  will  be  harmony  of  hue  and  line, 

Bodies  and  minds  all  perfect,  limbs  well-turned, 

And  talk  quite  free  from  aught  erroneous. 

Thus  far  Elias  in  his  seer's  mantle : 

But  at  this  climax  in  his  prophecy 

My  sinking  spirits,  fearing  to  be  swamped, 

Urge  me  to  speak.      "  High  prospects  these,  my  friend, 

Setting  the  weak  carnivorous  brain  astretch ; 

We  will  resume  the  thread  another  day." 

"To-morrow,"  cries  Elias,  "at  this  hour?" 

"  No,  not  to-morrow — I  shall  have  a  cold — 

At  least  I  feel  some  soreness — this  endemic — 

Good-bye." 


A  MINOR  PROPHET.  347 

No  tears  are  sadder  than  the  smile 
With  which  I  quit  Elias.     Bitterly 
I  feel  that  every  change  upon  this  earth 
Is  bought  with  sacrifice.     My  yearnings  fail 
To  reach  that  high  apocalyptic  mount 
Which  shows  in  bird's-eye  view  a  perfect  world, 
Or  enter  warmly  into  other  joys 
Than  those  of  faulty,  struggling  human  kind. 
That  strain  upon  my  soul's  too  feeble  wing 
Ends  in  ignoble  floundering :  I  fall 
Into  short-sighted  pity  for  the  men 
Who  living  in  those  perfect  future  times 
Will  not  know  half  the  dear  imperfect  things 
That  move  my  smiles  and  tears — will  never  know 
The  fine  old  incongruities  that  raise 
My  friendly  laugh;  the  innocent  conceits 
That  like  a  needless  eyeglass  or  black  patch 
Give  those  who  wear  them  harmless  happiness; 
The  twists  and  cracks  in  our  poor  earthenware, 
That  touch  me  to  more  conscious  fellowship 
(I  am  not  myself  the  finest  Parian) 
With  my  coevals.     So  poor  Colin  Clout, 
To  whom  raw  onion  gives  prospective  zest, 
Consoling  hours  of  dampest  wintry  work, 
Could  hardly  fancy  any  regal  joys 
Quite  unimpregnate  with  the  onion's  scent: 
Perhaps  his  highest  hopes  are  not  all  clear 
Of  waftings  from  that  energetic  bulb: 
'Tis  well  that  onion  is  not  heresy. 
Speaking  in  parable,  I  am  Colin  Clout. 
A  clinging  flavor  penetrates  my  life — 
My  onion  is  imperfectness :  I  cleave 
To  nature's  blunders,  evanescent  types 
Which  sages  banish  from  Utopia. 
"Not  worship  beauty?  "  say  you.     Patience,  friend! 
I  worship  in  the  temple  with  the  rest; 
But  by  my  hearth  I  keep  a  sacred  nook 
For  gnomes  and  dwarfs,  duck-footed  waddling  elves 
Who  stitched  and  hammered  for  the  weary  man 


348  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

In  days  of  old      And  in  that  piety 

I  clothe  ungainly  forms  inherited 

From  toiling  generations,  daily  bent 

At  desk,  or  plough,  or  loom,  or  m  the  mine, 

In  pioneering  labors  for  the  world. 

Nay,  I  am  apt  when  floundering  confused 

From  too  rash  flight,  to  grasp  at  paradox, 

And  pity  future  men  who  will  not  know 

A  keen  experience  with  pity  blent, 

The  pathos  exquisite  of  lovely  minds 

Hid  in  harsh  forms — not  penetrating  them 

Like  fire  divine  within  a  common  bush 

Which  glows  transfigured  by  the  heavenly  guest, 

So  that  men  put  their  shoes  off;  but  engaged 

Like  a  sweet  child  within  some  thick-walled  cell, 

Who  leaps  and  fails  to  hold  the  window-bars, 

But  having  shown  a  little  dimpled  hand 

Is  visited  thenceforth  by  tender  hearts 

Whose  eyes  keep  watch  about  the  prison  walls. 

A  foolish,  nay,  a  wicked  paradox ! 

For  purest  pity  is  the  eye  of  love 

Melting  at  sight  of  sorrow  j  and  to  grieve 

Because  it  sees  no  sorrow,  shows  a  love 

Warped  from  its  truer  nature,  turned  to  love 

Of  merest  habit,  like  the  miser's  greed. 

But  I  am  Colin  still :  my  prej  udice 

Is  for  the  flavor  of  my  daily  food. 

Not  that  I  doubt  the  world  is  growing  still 

As  once  it  grew  from  Chaos  and  from  Night; 

Or  have  a  soul  too  shrunken  for  the  hope 

Which  dawned  in  human  breasts,  a  double  morn, 

With  earliest  watchings  of  the  rising  light 

Chasing  the  darkness ;  and  through  many  an  age 

Has  raised  the  vision  of  a  future  time 

That  stands  an  Angel  with  a  face  all  mild 

Spearing  the  demon      I  too  rest  in  faith 

That  man's  perfection  is  the  crowning  flower, 

Toward  which  the  urgent  sap  in  life's  great  tree 

Is  pressing, — seen  in  puny  blossoms  now, 


A  MINOR  PROPHET.  349 

But  in  the  world's  great  morrows  to  expand 
With  broadest  petal  and  with  deepest  glow. 

Yet,  see  the  patched  and  plodding  citizen 

Waiting  upon  the  pavement  with  the  throng 

While  some  victorious  world-hero  makes 

Triumphal  entry,  and  the  peal  of  shouts 

And  flash  of  faces  'neath  uplifted  hats 

Run  like  a  storm  of  joy  along  the  streets ! 

He  says,  "  God  bless  him !  "  almost  with  a  sob, 

As  the  great  hero  passes ;  he  is  glad 

The  world  holds  mighty  men  and  mighty  deeds ; 

The  music  stirs  his  pulses  like  strong  wine, 

The  moving  splendor  touches  him  with  awe — 

'Tis  glory  shed  around  the  common  weal, 

And  he  will  pay  his  tribute  willingly, 

Though  with  the  pennies  earned  by  sordid  toil. 

Perhaps  the  hero's  deeds  have  helped  to  bring 

A  time  when  every  honest  citizen 

Shall  wear  a  coat  unpatched.     And  yet  he  feels 

More  easy  fellowship  with  neighbors  there 

Who  look  on  too;  and  he  will  soon  relapse 

From  noticing  the  banners  and  the  steeds 

To  think  with  pleasure  there  is  just  one  bun 

Left  in  his  pocket,  that  may  serve  to  tempt 

The  wide-eyed  lad,  whose  Aveight  is  all  too  much 

For  that  young  mother's  arms:  and  then  ne  falls 

To  dreamy  picturing  of  sunny  days 

When  he  himself  was  a  small  big-cheeked  lad 

In  some  far  village  where  no  heroes  came, 

And  stood  a  listener  'twixt  his  father's  legs 

In  the  warm  fire-light,  while  the  old  folk  talked 

And  shook  their  heads  and  looked  upon  the  floor; 

And  he  was  puzzled,  thinking  life  was  fine — 

The  bread  and  cheese  so  nice  all  through  the  year 

And  Christmas  sure  to  come.     Oh  that  good  time ! 

He,  could  he  choose,  would  have  those  days  again 

And  see  the  dear  old-fashioned  things  once  more. 

But  soon  the  wheels  and  drums  have  all  passed  by  , 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


I  CAXNOT  choose  but  think  upon  the  time 
When  our  two  lives  grew  like  two  buds  that  kiss 
At  lightest  thrill  from  the  bee's  swinging  chime, 
Because  the  one  so  near  the  other  is. 

He  was  the  elder  and  a  little  man 
Of  forty  inches,  bound  to  show  no  dread, 
And  I  the  girl  that  puppy-like  now  ran, 
Now  lagged  behind  my  brother's  larger  tread. 

I  held  him  wise,  and  when  he  talked  to  me 
Of  snakes  and  birds,  and  which  God  loved  the  best, 
I  thought  his  knowledge  marked  the  boundary 
Where  men  grew  blind,  though  angels  knew  the  rest. 

If  he  said  "  Hush!  "  I  tried  to  hold  my  breath; 
Wherever  he  said  "  Come !  "  I  stepped  in  faith. 

IT. 

Long  years  have  left  their  writing  on  my  brow, 
But  yet  the  freshness  and  the  dew-fed  beam 
Of  those  young  mornings  are  about  me  now, 
When  we  two  wandered  toward  the  far-off  stream. 

With  rod  and  line.     Our  basket  held  a  store 
Baked  for  us  only,  and  I  thought  with  joy 
That  I  should  have  my  share,  though  he  had  more, 
Because  he  was  the  elder  and  a  boy. 


;  Across  the  homestead  to  the  rookery  elms, 
Whose  tall  old  trunks  had  each  a  grassy  mound."— Page  333. 

Eliot—Brother  and  Sister. 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER.  363 

The  firmaments  of  daisies  since  to  me 
Have  had  those  mornings  in  their  opening  eyes, 
The  bunched  cowslip's  pale  transparency 
Carries  that  sunshine  of  sweet  memories, 

And  wild-rose  branches  take  their  finest  scent 
From  those  blest  hours  of  infantine  content. 


in. 

Our  mother  bade  us  keep  the  trodden  ways, 
Stroked  down  my  tippet,  set  my  brother's  frill, 
Then  with  the  benediction  of  her  gaze 
Clung  to  us  lessening,  and  pursued  us  still 

Across  the  homestead  to  the  rookery  elms, 
Whose  tall  old -trunks  had  each  a  grassy  mound, 
So  rich  for  us,  we  counted  them  as  realms 
With  varied  products :  here  were  earth-nuts  found, 

And  here  the  Lady-fingers  in  deep  shade ; 
Here  sloping  toward  the  Moat  the  rushes  grew, 
The  large  to  split  for  pith,  the  small  to  braid : 
While  over  all  the  dark  rooks  cawing  flew, 

And  made  a  happy  strange  solemnity, 

A  deep-toned  chant  from  life  unknown  to  me. 


IV. 

Our  meadow-path  had  memorable  spots : 
One  where  it  bridged  a  tiny  rivulet, 
Deep  hid  by  tangled  blue  Forget-me-nots; 
And  all  along  the  waving  grasses  met 

My  little  palm,  or  nodded  to  my  cheek, 
When  flowers  with  upturned  faces  gazing  drew 
My  wonder  downward,  seeming  all  to  speak 
With  eyes  of  souls  that  dumbly  heard  and  knew. 
23 


354  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Then  came  the  copse,  where  wild  things  rushed  unseen, 
And  black-scathed  grass  betrayed  the  past  abode 
Of  mystic  gypsies,  who  still  lurked  between 
Me  and  each  hidden  distance  of  the  road. 

A  gypsy  once  had  startled  me  at  play, 
Blotting  with  her  dark  smile  my  sunny  day. 

v. 

Thus  rambling  we  were  schooled  in  deepest  lore, 
And  learned  the  meanings  that  give  words  a  soul, 
The  fear,  the  love,  the  primal  passionate  store, 
Whose  shaping  impulses  make  manhood  whole. 

Those  hours  were  seed  to  all  my  after  good ; 
My  infant  gladness,  through  eye,  ear,  and  touch, 
Took  easily  as  warmth  a  various  food 
To  nourish  the  sweet  skill  of  loving  much. 

For  who  in  age  shall  roam  the  earth  and  find 
Reasons  for  loving  that  will  strike  out  love 
With  sudden  rod  from  the  hard  year-pressed  mind? 
Were  reasons  sown  as  thick  as  stars  above, 

'Tis  love  must  see  them,  as  the  eye  sees  light: 
Bay  is  but  Number  to  the  darkened  sight. 

VI. 

Our  brown  canal  was  endless  to  my  thought; 
A.nd  on  its  banks  I  sat  in  dreamy  peace, 
Unknowing  how  the  good  I  loved  was  wrought, 
Untroubled  by  the  fear  that  it  would  cease. 

Slowly  the  barges  floated  into  view 
Rounding  a  grassy  hill  to  me  sublime 
With  some  Unknown  beyond  it,  whither  flew 
The  parting  cuckoo  toward  a  fresh  spring  time. 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER.  356 

The  wide-arched  bridge,  the  scented  elder-flowers, 
The  wondrous  watery  rings  that  died  too  soon, 
The  echoes  of  the  quarry,  the  still  hours 
With  white  robe  sweeping  on  the  shadeless  noon, 

Were  but  my  growing  self,  are  part  of  me, 
My  present  Past,  my  root  of  piety. 


VII. 

Those  long  days  measured  by  my  little  feet 
Had  chronicles  which  yield  me  many  a  text; 
Where  irony  still  finds  an  image  meet 
Of  full-grown  judgments  in  this  world  perplext. 

One  day  my  brother  left  me  in  high  charge, 
To  mind  the  rod,  while  he  went  seeking  bait, 
And  bade  me,  when  I  saw  a  nearing  barge, 
Snatch  out  the  line,  lest  he  should  come  too  late. 

Proud  of  the  task,  I  watched  with  all  my  might 
For  one  whole  minute,  till  my  eyes  grew  wide, 
Till  sky  and  earth  took  on  a  strange  new  light 
And  seemed  a  dream-world  floating  on  some  tide- 

A  fair  pavilioned  boat  for  me  alone 

Bearing  me  onward  through  the  vast  unknown. 

VIII. 

But  sudden  came  the  barge's  pitch-black  prow, 
Nearer  and  angrier  came  my  brother's  cry, 
And  all  my  soul  was  quivering  fear,  when  lo! 
Upon  the  imperilled  line,  suspended  high, 

A  silver  perch !     My  guilt  that  won  the  prey, 
Now  turned  to  merit,  had  a  guerdon  rich 
Of  hugs  and  praises,  and  made  merry  play, 
Until  my  triumph  reached  its  highest  pitch 


356  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

When  all  at  home  were  told  the  wondrous  feat, 
And  how  the  little  sister  had  fished  well. 
In  secret,  though  my  fortune  tasted  sweet, 
I  wondered  why  this  happiness  befell. 

"  The  little  lass  had  luck, "  the  gardener  said : 
And  so  I  learned,  luck  was  with  glory  wed. 


IX. 

We  had  the  self -same  world  enlarged  for  each 
By  loving  difference  of  girl  and  boy  : 
The  fruit  that  hung  on  high  beyond  my  reach 
He  plucked  for  me,  and  oft  he  must  employ 

A  measuring  glance  to  guide  my  tiny  shoe 
Where  lay  firm  stepping-stones,  or  call  to  mind 
"  This  thing  I  like  my  sister  may  not  do 
For  she  is  little,  and  I  must  be  kind." 

Thus  boyish  Will  the  nobler  mastery  learned 
Where  inward  vision  over  impulse  reigns, 
Widening  its  life  with  separate  life  discerned, 
A  Like  unlike,  a  Self  that  self  restrains. 

His  years  with  others  must  the  sweeter  be 
For  those  brief  days  he  spent  in  loving  me. 


x. 

His  sorrow  was  my  sorrow,  and  his  joy 
Sent  little  leaps  and  laughs  through  all  my  frame; 
My  doll  seemed  lifeless  and  no  girlish  toy 
Had  any  reason  when  my  brother  came. 

I  knelt  with  him  at  marbles,  marked  his  fling 
Cut  the  ringed  stem  and  make  the  apple  drop, 
Or  watched  him  winding  close  the  spiral  string 
That  looped  the  orbits  of  the  humming  top. 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER.  367 

Grasped  by  such  fellowship  my  vagrant  thought 
Ceased  with  dream-fruit  dream- wishes  to  fulfil; 
My  ae'ry-picturing  fantasy  was  taught 
Subjection  to  the  harder,  truer  skill 

That  seeks  with  deeds  to  grave  a  thought-tracked  line, 
And  by  "  What  is,"  "  What  will  be  "  to  define. 

XI. 

School  parted  us ;  we  never  found  again 
That  childish  world  where  our  two  spirits  mingled 
Like  scents  from  varying  roses  that  remain 
One  sweetness,  nor  can  evermore  be  singled. 

Yet  the  twin  habit  of  that  early  time 
Lingered  for  long  about  the  heart  and  tongue : 
We  had  been  natives  of  one  happy  clime, 
And  its  dear  accents  to  our  utterance  clung. 

Till  the  dire  years  whose  awful  name  is  Change 
Had  grasped  our  souls  still  yearning  in  divorce, 
And  pitiless  shaped  them  in  two  forms  that  range 
Two  elements  which  sever  their  life's  course. 

But  were  another  childhood-world  my  share, 
I  would  be  born  a  little  sister  there. 


STBADIVARIUS. 


YOUR  soul  was  lifted  by  the  wings  to-day 

Hearing  the  master  of  the  violin : 

You  praised  him,  praised  the  great  Sebastian  too 

Who  made  that  fine  Chaconne ;  but  did  you  think 

Of  old  Antonio  Stradivari? — him 

Who  a  good  century  and  half  ago 

Put  his  true  work  in  that  brown  instrument 

And  by  the  nice  adjustment  of  its  frame 

Gave  it  responsive  life,  continuous 

With  the  master's  finger-tips  and  perfected 

Like  them  by  delicate  rectitude  of  use. 

Not  Bach  alone,  helped  by  fine  precedent 

Of  genius  gone  before,  nor  Joachim 

Who  holds  the  strain  afresh  incorporate 

By  inward  hearing  and  notation  strict 

Of  nerve  and  muscle,  made  our  joy  to-day : 

Another  soul  was  living  in  the  air 

And  swaying  it  to  true  deliverance 

Of  high  invention  and  responsive  skill : — 

That  plain  white-aproned  man  who  stood  at  work 

Patient  and  accurate  full  fourscore  years, 

Cherished  his  sight  and  touch  by  temperance, 

And  since  keen  sense  is  love  of  perfectness 

Made  perfect  violins,  the  needed  paths 

For  inspiration  and  high  mastery. 

No  simpler  man  than  he :  he  never  cried, 
44  Why  was  I  born  to  this  monotonous  task 


STRADIVARIUS.  359 

Of  making  violins?  "  or  flung  them  down 

To  suit  with  hurling  act  a  well-hurled  curse 

At  labor  on  such  perishable  stuff. 

Hence  neighbors  in  Cremona  held  him  dull, 

Called  him  a  slave,  a  mill-horse,  a  machine, 

Begged  him  to  tell  his  motives  or  to  lend 

A  few  gold  pieces  to  a  loftier  mind. 

Yet  he  had  pithy  words  full  fed  by  fact ; 

For  Fact,  well-trusted,  reasons  and  persuades, 

Is  gnomic,  cutting,  or  ironical, 

Draws  tears,  or  is  a  tocsin  to  arouse — 

Can  hold  all  figures  of  the  orator 

In  one  plain  sentence ;  has  her  pauses  too — 

Eloquent  silence  at  the  chasm  abrupt 

Where  knowledge  ceases.     Thus  Antonio 

Made  answers  as  Fact  willed,  and  made  them  strong. 

Naldo,  a  painter  of  eclectic  school, 

Taking  his  dicers,  candlelight  and  grins 

From  Caravaggio,  and  in  holier  groups 

Combining  Flemish  flesh  with  martyrdom — 

Knowing  all  tricks  of  style  at  thirty-one, 

And  weary  of  them,  while  Antonio 

At  sixty-nine  wrought  placidly  his  best 

Making  the  violin  you  heard  to-day — 

Naldo  would  tease  him  oft  to  tell  his  aims. 

"  Perhaps  thou  hast  some  pleasant  vice  to  feed — 

The  love  of  louis  d'ors  in  heaps  of  four, 

Each  violin  a  heap — I'  ve  nought  to  blame ; 

My  vices  waste  such  heaps.     But  then,  why  work 

With  painful  nicety?     Since  fame  once  earned 

By  luck  or  merit — oftenest  by  luck — 

(Else  why  do  I  put  Bonifazio's  name 

To  work  that  '  pinxit  Naldo  '  would  not  sell?) 

Is  welcome  index  to  the  wealthy  mob 

Where  they  should  pay  their  gold,  and  where  they  pay 

There  they  find  merit — take  your  tow  for  flax, 

And  hold  the  flax  unlabelled  with  your  name, 

Too  coarse  for  sufferance." 


360  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Antonio  then : 

"I  like  the  gold — well,  yes — but  not  for  meals. 
And  as  my  stomach,  so  my  eye  and  hand, 
And  inward  sense  that  works  alone  with  both, 
Have  hunger  that  can  never  feed  on  coin. 
Who  draws  a  line  and  satisfies  his  soul, 
Making  it  crooked  where  it  should  be  straight? 
An  idiot  with  an  oyster-shell  may  draw 
His  lines  along  the  sand,  all  wavering, 
Fixing  no  point  or  pathway  to  a  point ; 
An  idiot  one  remove  may  choose  his  line, 
Straggle  and  be  content ;  but  God  be  praised, 
Antonio  Stradivari  has  an  eye 
That  winces  at  false  work  and  loves  the  true, 
With  hand  and  arm  that  play  upon  the  tool 
As  willingly  as  any  singing  bird 
Sets  him  to  sing  his  morning  roundelay, 
Because  he  likes  to  sing  and  likes  the  song." 

Then  Naldo :  "  'Tis  a  petty  kind  of  fame 
At  best,  that  comes  of  making  violins ; 
And  saves  no  masses,  either.     Thou  wilt  go 
To  purgatory  none  the  less." 

But  he  : 

"'Twere  puragtory  here  to  make  them  ill; 
And  for  my  fame — when  any  master  holds 
'Twixt  chin  and  hand  a  violin  of  mine, 
He  will  be  glad  that  Stradivari  lived, 
Made  violins,  and  made  them  of  the  best. 
The  masters  only  know  whose  work  is  good: 
They  will  choose  mine,  and  while  God  gives  them  skill 
I  give  them  instruments  to  play  upon, 
God  choosing  me  to  help  Him. " 

"What!  were  God 
At  fault  for  violins,  thou  absent?  " 

"Yes; 
He  were  at  fault  for  Stradivari's  work." 

"  Why,  many  hold  Giuseppe's  violins 
As  good  as  thine." 


8TRADIVARIU8.  361 

"  May  be :  they  are  different. 
His  quality  declines :  he  spoils  his  hand 
With  over-drinking.     But  were  his  the  best, 
He  could  not  work  for  two.     My  work  is  mine, 
And,  heresy  or  not,  if  my  hand  slacked 
I  should  rob  God — since  He  is  fullest  good — 
Leaving  a  blank  instead  of  violins. 
I  say,  not  God  Himself  can  make  man's  best 
Without  best  men  to  help  Him.     I  am  one  best 
Here  in  Cremona,  using  sunlight  well 
To  fashion  finest  maple  till  it  serves 
More  cunningly  than  throats  for  harmony. 
"Tis  rare  delight:  I  would  not  change  my  skill 
To  be  the  Emperor  with  bungling  hands 
And  lose  my  work,  which  comes  as  natural 
As  self  at  waking." 

"  Thou  art  little  more 
Than  a  deft  potter's  wheel,  Antonio; 
Turning  out  work  by  mere  necessity 
And  lack  of  varied  function.     Higher  arts 
Subsist  on  freedom — eccentricity — 
Uncounted  inspirations — influence 
That  comes  with  drinking,  gambling,  talk  turned  wild, 
Then  moody  misery  and  lack  of  food — 
With  every  dithyrambic  fine  excess : 
These  make  at  last  a  storm  which  flashes  out 
In  lightning  revelations.     Steady  work 
Turns  genius  to  a  loom ;  the  soul  must  lie 
Like  grapes  beneath  the  sun  till  ripeness  comes 
And  mellow  vintage.     I  could  paint  you  now 
The  finest  Crucifixion ;  yesternight 
Returning  home  I  saw  it  on  a  sky 
Blue-black,  thick-starred.     I  want  two  louis  d'ors 
To  buy  the  canvas  and  the  costly  blues — 
Trust  me  a  fortnight. " 

"  Where  are  those  last  two 
I  lent'thee  for  thy  Judith? — her  thou  saw'st 
In  saffron  gown,  with  Holofernes'  head 
And  beauty  all  complete?  " 


362  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

"  She  is  but  sketched : 
I  lack  the  proper  model — and  the  mood. 
A  great  idea  is  an  eagle's  egg, 
Craves  time  for  hatching;  while  the  eagle  sits 
Feed  her." 

"  If  thou  wilt  call  thy  pictures  eggs 
I  call  the  hatching,  Work.     'Tis  God  gives  skill, 
But  not  without  men' s  hands :  He  could  not  make 
Antonio  Stradivari's  violins 
Without  Antonio.     Get  thee  to  thy  easel." 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY. 


YOUNG  Hamlet,  not  the  hesitating  Dane, 

But  one  named  after  him,  who  lately  strove 

For  honors  at  our  English  Wittenberg, — 

Blond,  metaphysical,  and  sensuous, 

Questioning  all  things  and  yet  half  convinced 

Credulity  were  better;  held  inert 

'Twixt  fascinations  of  all  opposites, 

And  half  suspecting  that  the  mightiest  soul 

(Perhaps  his  own?)   was  union  of  extremes, 

Having  no  choice  but  choice  of  everything : 

As,  drinking  deep  to-day  for  love  of  wine, 

To-morrow  half  a  Brahmin,  scorning  life 

As  mere  illusion,  yearning  for  that  True 

Which  has  no  qualities ;  another  day 

Finding  the  fount  of  grace  in  sacraments, 

And  purest  reflex  of  the  light  divine 

In  gem-bossed  pyx  and  broidered  chasuble, 

Resolved  to  wear  no  stockings  and  to  fast 

With  arms  extended,  waiting  ecstasy; 

But  getting  cramps  instead,  and  needing  change, 

A  would-be  pagan  next : — 

Young  Hamlet  sat 

A  guest  with  five  of  somewhat  riper  age 
At  breakfast  with  Horatio,  a  friend 
With  few  opinions,  but  of  faithful  heart, 
Quick  to  detect  the  fibrous  spreading  roots 
Of  character  that  feed  men's  theories, 
Yet  cloaking  weaknesses  with  charity 


364  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

And  ready  in  all  service  save  rebuke. 
With  ebb  of  breakfast  and  the  cider-cup 
Came  high  debate :  the  others  seated  there 
Were  Osric,  spinner  of  fine  sentences, 
A  delicate  insect  creeping  over  life 
Feeding  on  molecules  of  floral  breath, 
And  weaving  gossamer  to  trap  the  sun ; 
Laertes  ardent,  rash,  and  radical ; 
Discursive  Rosencranz,  grave  Guildenstern, 
And  he  for  whom  the  social  meal  was  made — 
The  polished  priest,  a  tolerant  listener, 
Disposed  to  give  a  hearing  to  the  lost, 
And  breakfast  with  them  ere  they  went  below. 

From  alpine  metaphysic  glaciers  first 

The  talk  sprang  copious ;  the  themes  were  old, 

But  so  is  human  breath,  so  infant  eyes, 

The  daily  nurslings  of  creative  light. 

Small  words  held  mighty  meanings :  Matter,  Force, 

Self,  Not-self,  Being,  Seeming,  Space  and  Time — 

Plebeian  toilers  on  the  dusty  road 

Of  daily  traffic,  turned  to  Genii 

And  cloudy  giants  darkening  sun  and  moon. 

Creation  was  reversed  in  human  talk : 

None  said,  "  Let  Darkness  be, "  but  Darkness  was ; 

And  in  it  welted  with  Teutonic  ease, 

An  argumentative  Leviathan, 

Blowing  cascades  from  out  his  element, 

The  thunderous  Rosencranz,  till 

"Truce,  I  beg!" 

Said  Osric,  with  nice  accent.     "  I  abhor 
That  battling  of  the  ghosts,  that  strife  of  terms 
For  utmost  lack  of  color,  form,  and  breath, 
That  tasteless  squabbling  called  Philosophy : 
As  if  a  blue-winged  butterfly  afloat 
For  just  three  days  above  the  Italian  fields, 
Instead  of  sipping  at  the  heart  of  flowers, 
Poising  in  sunshine,  fluttering  toward  its  bride, 
Should  fast  and  speculate,  considering 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY.  565 

What  were  if  it  were  not?  or  what  now  is 

Instead  of  that  which  seems  to  be  itself? 

Its  deepest  wisdom  surely  were  to  be 

A  sipping,  marrying,  blue- winged  butterfly ; 

Since  utmost  speculation  on  itself 

Were  but  a  three  days'  living  of  worse  sort — 

A  bruising  struggle  all  within  the  bounds 

Of  butterfly  existence." 

"I  protest," 

Burst  in  Laertes,  "  against  arguments 
That  start  with  calling  me  a  butterfly, 
A  bubble,  spark,  or  other  metaphor 
Which  carries  your  conclusions  as  a  phrase 
In  quibbling  law  will  carry  property. 
Put  a  thin  sucker  for  my  human  lips 
Fed  at  a  mother's  breast,  who  now  needs  food 
That  I  will  earn  for  her ;  put  bubbles  blown 
From  frothy  thinking,  for  the  joy,  the  love, 
The  wants,  the  pity,  and  the  fellowship 
(The  ocean  deeps  I  might  say,  were  I  bent 
On  bandying  metaphors)  that  make  a  man — 
Why,  rhetoric  brings  within  your  easy  reach 
Conclusions  worthy  of — a  butterfly. 
The  universe,  I  hold,  is  no  charade, 
No  acted  pun  unriddled  by  a  word, 
Nor  pain  a  decimal  diminishing 
With  hocus-pocus  of  a  dot  or  nought. 
For  those  who  know  it,  pain  is  solely  pain : 
Not  any  letters  of  the  alphabet 
Wrought  syllogistically  pattern-wise, 
Nor  any  cluster  of  fine  images, 
Nor  any  missing  of  their  figured  dance 
By  blundering  molecules.     Analysis 
May  show  you  the  right  physic  for  the  ill, 
Teaching  the  molecules  to  find  their  dance, 
But  spare  me  your  analogies,  that  hold 
Such  insight  as  the  figure  of  a  crow 
And  bar  of  music  put  to  signify 
A  crowbar." 


366  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Said  the  Priest,  "  There  I  agree— 
Would  add  that  sacramental  grace  is  grace 
Which  to  be  known  must  first  be  felt,  with  all 
The  strengthening  influxes  that  come  by  prayer. 
I  note  this  passingly — would  not  delay 
The  conversation' s  tenor,  save  to  hint 
That  taking  stand  with  Rosencranz  one  sees 
Final  equivalence  of  all  we  name 
Our  Good  and  111 — their  difference  meanwhile 
Being  inborn  prejudice  that  plumps  you  down 
An  Ego,  brings  a  weight  into  your  scale 
Forcing  a  standard.     That  resistless  weight 
Obstinate,  irremovable  by  thought, 
Persisting  through  disproof,  an  ache,  a  need 
That  spaceless  stays  where  sharp  analysis 
Has  shown  a  plenum  filled  without  it — what 
If  this,  to  use  your  phrase,  were  just  that  Being 
Not  looking  solely,  grasping  from  the  dark, 
•  Weighing  the  difference  you  call  Ego?     This 
Gives  you  persistence,  regulates  the  flux 
With  strict  relation  rooted  in  the  All. 
Who  is  he  of  your  late  philosophers 
Takes  the  true  name  of  Being  to  be  Will? 
I — nay,  the  Church  objects  nought,  is  content: 
Reason  has  reached  its  utmost  negative, 
Physic  and  rnetaphysic  meet  in  the  inane 
And  backward  shrink  to  intense  prejudice, 
Making  their  absolute  and  homogene 
A  loaded  relative,  a  choice  to  be 
Whatever  is — supposed :  a  What  is  not. 
The  Church  demands  no  more,  has  standing  room 
And  basis  for  her  doctrine :  this  (no  more) — 
That  the  strong  bias  which  we  name  the  Soul, 
Though  fed  and  clad  by  dissoluble  waves, 
Has  antecedent  quality,  and  rules 
By  veto  or  consent  the  strife  of  thought, 
Making  arbitrament  that  we  call  faith. " 
Here  was  brief  silence,  till  young  Hamlet  spoke. 
"  I  crave  direction,  Father,  how  to  know 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST  PARTY.  367 

The  sign  of  that  imperative  whose  right 

To  sway  iny  act  in  face  of  thronging  doubts 

Were  an  oracular  gem  in  price  beyond 

Uriin  and  Thumrnin  lost  to  Israel. 

That  bias  of  the  soul,  that  conquering  die 

Loaded  with  golden  emphasis  of  Will — 

How  find  it  where  resolve,  once  made,  becomes 

The  rash  exclusion  of  an  opposite 

Which  draws  the  stronger  as  I  turn  aloof." 

"  I  think  I  hear  a  bias  in  your  words, " 

The  Priest  said  mildly, — "that  strong  natural  bent 

Which  we  call  hunger.      What  more  positive 

Than  appetite? — of  spirit  or  of  flesh, 

I  care  not — '  sense  of  need  '  were  truer  phrase. 

You  hunger  for  authoritative  right, 

And  yet  discern  no  difference  of  tones, 

No  weight  of  rod  that  marks  imperial  rule? 

Laertes  granting,  I  will  put  your  case 

In  analogic  form :  the  doctors  hold 

Hunger  which  gives  no  relish — save  caprice 

That  tasting  venison  fancies  mellow  pears — 

A  symptom  of  disorder,  and  prescribe 

Strict  discipline.      Were  I  physician  here 

I  would  prescribe  that  exercise  of  soul 

Which  lies  in  full  obedience :  you  ask, 

Obedience  to  what?     The  answer  lies 

Within  the  word  itself;  for  how  obey 

What  has  no  rule,  asserts  no  absolute  claim? 

Take  inclination,  taste — why,  that  is  you, 

No  rule  above  you.      Science,  reasoning 

On  nature's  order — they  exist  and  move 

Solely  by  disputation,  hold  no  pledge 

Of  final  consequence,  but  push  the  swing 

Where  Epicurus  and  the  Stoic  sit 

In  endless  see-saw.     One  authority, 

And  only  one,  says  simply  this,  Obey : 

Place  yourself  in  that  current  (test  it  so!) 

Of  spiritual  order  where  at  least 


368  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Lies  promise  of  a  high  communion, 

A  Head  informing  members,  Life  that  breathes 

With  gift  of  forces  over  and  above 

The  plus  of  arithmetic  interchange. 

'  The  Church  too  has  a  body, '  you  object, 

'  Can  be  dissected,  put  beneath  the  lens 

And  shown  the  merest  continuity 

Of  all  existence  else  beneath  the  sun. ' 

I  grant  you ;  but  the  lens  will  not  disprove 

A  presence  which  eludes  it.     Take  your  wit, 

Your  highest  passion,  widest-reaching  thought : 

Show  their  conditions  if  you  will  or  can, 

But  though  you  saw  the  final  atom-dance 

Making  each  molecule  that  stands  for  sign 

Of  love  being  present,  where  is  still  your  love? 

How  measure  that,  how  certify  its  weight? 

And  so  I  say,  the  body  of  the  Church 

Carries  a  Presence,  promises  and  gifts 

Never  disproved — whose  argument  is  found 

In  lasting  failure  of  the  search  elsewhere 

For  what  it  holds  to  satisfy  man's  need. 

But  I  grow  lengthy :  my  excuse  must  be 

Your  question,  Hamlet,  which  has  probed  right  through 

To  the  pith  of  our  belief.     And  I  have  robbed 

Myself  of  pleasure  as  a  listener. 

'Tis  noon,  I  see;  and  my  appointment  stands 

For  half -past  twelve  with  Voltimand.     Good-bye." 

Brief  parting,  brief  regret — sincere,  but  quenched 
In  fumes  of  best  Havannah,  which  consoles 
For  lack  of  other  certitude.     Then  said, 
Mildly  sarcastic,  quiet  Guildenstern : 
"  I  marvel  how  the  Father  gave  new  charm 
To  weak  conclusions :  I  was  half  convinced 
The  poorest  reasoner  made  the  finest  man, 
And  held  his  logic  lovelier  for  its  limp." 

"  I  fain  would  hear, "  said  Hamlet,  "  how  you  find 
A  stronger  footing  than  the  Father  gave. 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY.  369 

How  base  your  self -resistance  save  on  faith 

In  some  invisible  Order,  higher  Eight 

Than  changing  impulse.     What  does  Reason  bid? 

To  take  a  fullest  rationality 

What  offers  best  solution :  so  the  Church. 

Science,  detecting  hydrogen  aflame 

Outside  our  firmament,  leaves  mystery 

Whole  and  untouched  beyond ;  nay,  in  our  blood 

And  in  the  potent  atoms  of  each  germ 

The  Secret  lives — envelops,  penetrates 

Whatever  sense  perceives  or  thought  divines. 

Science,  whose  soul  is  explanation,  halts 

With  hostile  front  at  mystery.     The  Church 

Takes  mystery  as  her  empire,  brings  its  wealth 

Of  possibility  to  fill  the  void 

'Twixt  contradictions — warrants  so  a  faith 

Defying  sense  and  all  its  ruthless  train 

Of  arrogant  '  Therefores.'     Science  with  her  lens 

Dissolves  the  Forms  that  made  the  other  half 

Of  all  our  love,  which  thenceforth  widowed  lives 

To  gaze  with  maniac  stare  at  what  is  not. 

The  Church  explains  not,  governs — feeds  resolve 

By  vision  fraught  with  heart-experience 

And  human  yearning." 

"Ay,"  said  Guildenstern 
With  friendly  nod,  "  the  Father,  I  can  see, 
Has  caught  you  up  in  his  air-chariot. 
His  thought  takes  rain  bow -bridges,  out  of  reach 
By  solid  obstacles,  evaporates 
The  coarse  and  common  into  subtilties, 
Insists  that  what  is  real  in  the  Church 
Is  something  out  of  evidence,  and  begs 
(Just  in  parenthesis)  you'll  never  mind 
What  stares  you  in  the  face  and  bruises  you. 
Why,  by  his  method  I  could  justify 
Each  superstition  and  each  tyranny 
That  ever  rode  upon  the  back  of  man, 
Pretending  fitness  for  his  sole  defence 
Against  life's  evil.     How  can  aught  subsist 
24 


370  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

That  holds  no  theory  of  gain  or  good? 

Despots  with  terror  in  their  red  right  hand 

Must  argue  good  to  helpers  and  themselves, 

Must  let  submission  hold  a  core  of  gain 

To  make  their  slaves  choose  life.     Their  theory, 

Abstracting  inconvenience  of  racks, 

Whip-lashes,  dragonnades  and  all  things  coarse 

Inherent  in  the  fact  or  concrete  mass, 

Presents  the  pure  idea — utmost  good 

Secured  by  Order  only  to  be  found 

In  strict  subordination,  hierarchy 

Of  forces  where,  by  nature's  law,  the  strong 

Has  rightful  empire,  rule  of  weaker  proved 

Mere  dissolution.     What  can  you  object? 

The  Inquisition — if  you  turn  away 

From  narrow  notice  how  the  scent  of  gold 

Has  guided  sense  of  damning  heresy — 

The  Inquisition  is  sublime,  is  love 

Hindering  the  spread  of  poison  in  men' s  souls : 

The  flames  are  nothing :  only  smaller  pain 

To  hinder  greater,  or  the  pain  of  one 

To  save  the  many,  such  as  throbs  at  heart 

Of  every  system  born  into  the  world. 

So  of  the  Church  as  high  communion 

Of  Head  with  members,  fount  of  spirit  force 

Beyond  the  calculus,  and  carrj'ing  proof 

In  her  sole  power  to  satisfy  man's  need: 

That  seems  ideal  truth  as  clear  as  lines 

That,  necessary  though  invisible,  trace 

The  balance  of  the  planets  and  the  sun — 

Until  I  find  a  hitch  in  that  last  claim. 

'  To  satisfy  man's  need.'     Sir,  that  depends: 

We  settle  first  the  measure  of  man's  need 

Before  we  grant  capacity  to  fill. 

John,  James,  or  Thomas,  you  may  satisfy : 

But  since  you  choose  ideals  I  demand 

Your  Church  shall  satisfy  ideal  man, 

His  utmost  reason  and  his  utmost  love. 

And  say  these  rest  a-hungered — find  no  scheme 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST -PARTY.  371 

Content  them  both,  but  hold  the  world  accursed, 
A  Calvary  where  Reason  mocks  at  Love, 
And  Love  forsaken  sends  out  orphan  cries 
Hopeless  of  answer ;  still  the  soul  remains 
Larger,  diviner  than  your  half-way  Church, 
Which  racks  your  reason  into  false  consent, 
And  soothes  your  Love  with  sops  of  selfishness." 

"  There  I  am  with  you, "  cried  Laertes.     "  What 
'  To  me  are  any  dictates,  though  they  came 
With  thunders  from  the  Mount,  if  still  within 
I  see  a  higher  Eight,  a  higher  Good 
Compelling  love  and  worship?     Though  the  earth 
Held  force  electric  to  discern  and  kill 
Each  thinking  rebel — what  is  martyrdom 
But  death-defying  utterance  of  belief, 
Which  being  mine  remains  my  truth  supreme 
Though  solitary  as  the  throb  of  pain 
Lying  outside  the  pulses  of  the  world? 
Obedience  is  good:  ay,  but  to  what? 
And  for  what  ends?     For  say  that  I  rebel 
Against  your  rule  as  devilish,  or  as  rule 
Of  thunder-guiding  powers  that  deny 
Man's  highest  benefit:  rebellion  then 
Were  strict  obedience  to  another  rule 
Which  bids  me  flout  your  thunder." 

"  Lo  you  now ! " 

Said  Osric,  delicately,  "  how  you  come, 
Laertes  mine,  with  all  your  warring  zeal 
As  Python-slayer  of  the  present  age — 
Cleansing  all  social  swamps  by  darting  rays 
Of  dubious  doctrine,  hot  with  energy 
Of  private  judgment  and  disgust  for  doubt — 
To  state  my  thesis,  which  you  most  abhor 
When  sung  in  Daphnis-notes  beneath  the  pines 
To  gentle  rush  of  waters.     Your  belief — 
In  essence  what  is  it  but  simply  Taste? 
I  urge  with  your  exemption  from  all  claims 
That  come  from  other  than  my  proper  will, 


372  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

An  Ultimate  within  to  balance  yours, 

A  solid  meeting  you,  excluding  you, 

Till  you  show  fuller  force  by  entering 

My  spiritual  space  and  crushing  Me 

To  a  subordinate  complement  of  You : 

Such  ultimate  must  stand  alike  for  all. 

Preach  your  crusade,  then :  all  will  join  who  like 

The  hurly-burly  of  aggressive  creeds; 

Still  your  unpleasant  Ought,  your  itch  to  choose 

What  grates  upon  the  sense,  is  simply  Taste, 

Differs,  I  think,  from  mine  (permit  the  word, 

Discussion  forces  it)  in  being  bad." 

The  tone  was  too  polite  to  breed  offence, 

Showing  a  tolerance  of  what  was  "  bad  " 

Becoming  courtiers.     Louder  Rosencranz 

Took  up  the  ball  with  rougher  movement,  wont 

To  show  contempt  for  doting  reasoners 

Who  hugged  some  reasons  with  a  preference, 

As  warm  Laertes  did :  he  gave  five  puffs 

Intolerantly  sceptical,  then  said, 

"  Your  human  good,  which  you  would  make  supreme, 

How  do  you  know  it?     Has  it  shown  its  face 

In  adamantine  type,  with  features  clear, 

As  this  republic,  or  that  monarchy? 

As  federal  grouping,  or  municipal? 

Equality,  or  finely  shaded  lines 

Of  social  difference?  ecstatic  whirl 

And  draught  intense  of  passionate  joy  and  pain, 

Or  sober  self-control  that  starves  its  youth 

And  lives  to  wonder  what  the  world  calls  joy? 

Is  it  in  sympathy  that  shares  men's  pangs 

Or  in  cool  brains  that  can  explain  them  well? 

Is  it  in  labor  or  in  laziness? 

In  training  for  the  tug  of  rivalry 

To  be  admired,  or  in  the  admiring  soul? 

In  risk  or  certitude?     In  battling  rage 

And  hardy  challenges  of  Protean  luck, 

Or  in  a  sleek  and  rural  apathy 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY.  373 

Full  fed  with  sameness?     Pray  define  your  Good 

Beyond  rejection  by  majority; 

Next,  how  it  may  subsist  without  the  111 

Which  seems  its  only  outline.     Show  a  world 

Of  pleasure  not  resisted ;  or  a  world 

Of  pressure  equalized,  yet  various 

In  action  formative ;  for  that  will  serve 

As  illustration  of  your  human  good — 

Which  at  its  perfecting  (your  goal  of  hope) 

Will  not  be  straight  extinct,  or  fall  to  sleep 

In  the  deep  bosom  of  the  Unchangeable. 

What  will  you  work  for,  then,  and  call  it  good 

With  full  and  certain  vision — good  for  aught 

Save  partial  ends  which  happen  to  be  yours? 

How  will  you  get  your  stringency  to  bind 

Thought  or  desire  in  demonstrated  tracks 

Which  are  but  waves  within  a  balanced  whole? 

Is  '  relative '  the  magic  word  that  turns 

Your  flux  mercurial  of  good  to  gold? 

Why,  that  analysis  at  which  you  rage 

As  anti-social  force  that  sweeps  you  down 

The  world  in  one  cascade  of  molecules, 

Is  brother  '  relative ' — and  grins  at  you 

Like  any  convict  whom  you  thought  to  send 

Outside  society,  till  this  enlarged 

And  meant  New  England  and  Australia  too. 

The  Absolute  is  your  shadow,  and  the  space 

Which  you  say  might  be  real  were  you  milled 

To  curves  pellicular,  the  thinnest  thin, 

Equation  of  no  thickness,  is  still  you." 

"Abstracting  all  that  makes  him  clubbable," 
Horatio  interposed.     But  Kosencranz, 
Deaf  as  the  angry  turkey-cock  whose  ears 
Are  plugged  by  swollen  tissues  when  he  scolds 
At  men's  pretensions:  "Pooh,  your  '  Relative* 
Shuts  you  in,  hopeless,  with  your  progeny 
As  in  a  Hunger-tower ;  your  social  good, 
Like  other  deities  by  turn  supreme, 


374  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Is  transient  reflex  of  a  prejudice, 
Anthology  of  causes  and  effects 
To  suit  the  mood  of  fanatics  who  lead 
The  mood  of  tribe  or  nations.     I  admit 
If  you  could  show  a  sword,  nay,  chance  of  sword 
Hanging  conspicuous  to  their  inward  eyes 
With  edge  so  constant  threatening  as  to  sway 
,      All  greed  and  lust  by  terror;  and  a  law 
Clear-writ  and  proven  as  the  law  supreme 
Which  that  dread  sword  enforces — then  your  Right, 
Duty,  or  social  Good,  were  it  once  brought 
To  common  measure  with  the  potent  law, 
Would  dip  the  scale,  would  put  unchanging  marks 
Of  wisdom  or  of  folly  on  each  deed, 
And  warrant  exhortation.     Until  then, 
Where  is  your  standard  or  criterion? 
'  What  always,  everywhere,  by  all  men  ' — why, 
That  were  but  Custom,  and  your  system  needs 
Ideals  never  yet  incorporate, 
The  imminent  doom  of  Custom.     Can  you  find 
Appeal  beyond  the  sentience  in  each  man? 
Frighten  the  blind  with  scarecrows?  raise  an  awe 
Of  things  unseen  where  appetite  commands 
Chambers  of  imagery  in  the  soul 
At  all  its  avenues? — You  chant  your  hymns 
To  Evolution,  on  your  altar  lay 
A  sacred  egg  called  Progress :  have  you  proved 
A  Best  unique  where  all  is  relative, 
And  where  each  change  is  loss  as  well  as  gain? 
The  age  of  healthy  Saurians,  well  supplied 
With  heat  and  prey,  will  balance  well  enough 
A  human  age  where  maladies  are  strong 
And  pleasures  feeble ;  wealth  a  monster  gorged 
Mid  hungry  populations ;  intellect 
Aproned  in  laboratories,  bent  on  proof 
That  this  is  that  and  both  are  good  for  nought 
Save  feeding  error  through  a  weary  life; 
While  Art  and  Poesy  struggle  like  poor  ghosts 
To  hinder  cock-crow  and  the  dreadful  light, 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY.  375 

Lurking  in  darkness  and  the  charnel-house, 
Or  like  two  stalwart  gray  beards,  imbecile 
With  limbs  still  active,  playing  at  belief 
That  hunt  the  slipper,  foot-ball,  hide-and-seek, 
Are  sweetly  merry,  donning  pinafores 
And  lisping  emulously  in  their  speech. 

0  human  race!     Is  this  then  all  thy  gain? — 
Working  at  disproof,  playing  at  belief, 
Debate  or  causes,  distaste  of  effects, 
Power  to  transmute  all  elements,  and  lack 
Of  any  power  to  sway  the  fatal  skill 

And  make  thy  lot  aught  else  than  rigid  doom? 
The  Saurians  were  better. — Guildenstern, 
Pass  me  the  taper.     Still  the  human  curse 
Has  mitigation  in  the  best  cigars." 

Then  swift  Laertes,  not  without  a  glare 
Of  leonine  wrath,  " I  thank  thee  for  that  word: 
That  one  confession,  were  I  Socrates, 
Should  force  you  onward  till  you  ran  your  head 
At  your  own  image — flatly  gave  the  lie 
To  all  your  blasphemy  of  that  human  good 
Which  bred  and  nourished  you  to  sit  at  ease 
And  learnedly  deny  it.     Say  the  world 
Groans  ever  with  the  pangs  of  doubtful  births : 
Say,  life's  a  poor  donation  at  the  best — 
Wisdom  a  yearning  after  nothingness — 
Nature's  great  vision  and  the  thrill  supreme 
Of  thought-fed  passion  but  a  weary  play — 

1  argue  not  against  you.     Who  can  prove 
Wit  to  be  witty  when  with  deeper  ground 
Dulness  intuitive  declares  wit  dull? 

If  life  is  worthless  to  you — why,  it  is. 

You  only  know  how  little  love  you  feel 

To  give  you  fellowship,  how  little  force 

Responsive  to  the  quality  of  things. 

Then  end  your  life,  throw  off  the  unsought  yoke. 

If  not — if  you  remain  to  taste  cigars, 

Choose  racy  diction,  perorate  at  large 


376  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

With  tacit  scorn  of  meaner  men  who  wiii 

No  wreath  or  tripos — then  admit  at  least 

A  possible  Better  in  the  seeds  of  earth ; 

Acknowledge  debt  to  that  laborious  life 

Which,  sifting  evermore  the  mingled  seeds, 

Testing  the  Possible  with  patient  skill, 

And  daring  ill  in  presence  of  a  good 

For  futures  to  inherit,  made  your  lot 

One  you  would  choose  rather  than  end  it,  nay, 

Kather  than,  say,  some  twenty  million  lots 

Of  fellow-Britons  toiling  all  to  make 

That  nation,  that  community,  whereon 

You  feed  and  thrive  and  talk  philosophy. 

I  am  no  optimist  whose  faith  must  hang 

On  hard  pretence  that  pain  is  beautiful 

And  agony  explained  for  men  at  ease 

By  virtue's  exercise  in  pitying  it. 

But  this  I  hold :  that  he  who  takes  one  gift 

Made  for  him  by  the  hopeful  work  of  man, 

Who  tastes  sweet  bread,  walks  where  he  will  unarmed, 

His  shield  and  warrant  the  invisible  law, 

Who  owns  a  hearth  and  household  charities, 

Who  clothes  his  body  and  his  sentient  soul 

With  skill  and  thoughts  of  men,  and  yet  denies 

A  human  good  worth  toiling  for,  is  cursed 

With  worse  negation  than  the  poet  feigned 

In  Mephistopheles.     The  Devil  spins 

His  wire-drawn  argument  against  all  good 

With  sense  of  brimstone  as  his  private  lot, 

And  never  drew  a  solace  from  the  Earth. " 

Laertes  fuming  paused,  and  Guildenstern 
Took  up  with  cooler  skill  the  fusillade : 
"  I  meet  your  deadliest  challenge,  Rosencranz : — 
Where  get,  you  say,  a  binding  law,  a  rule 
Enforced  by  sanction,  an  Ideal  throned 
With  thunder  in  its  hand?     I  answer,  there 
Whence  every  faith  and  rule  has  drawn  its  force 
Since  human  consciousness  awaking  owned 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY.        .  377 

An  Outward,  whose  unconquerable  sway 

Resisted  first  and  then  subdued  desire 

By  pressure  of  the  dire  Impossible 

Urging  to  possible  ends  the  active  soul 

And  shaping  so  its  terror  and  its  love. 

Why,  you  have  said  it — threats  and  promises 

Depend  on  each  man's  sentience  for  their  force: 

All  sacred  rules,  imagined  or  revealed, 

Can  have  no  form  or  potency  apart 

From  the  percipient  and  emotive  mind. 

God,  duty,  love,  submission,  fellowship, 

Must  first  be  framed  in  man,  as  music  is, 

Before  they  live  outside  him  as  a  law. 

And  still  they  grow  and  shape  themselves  anew, 

With  fuller  concentration  in  their  life 

Of  inward  and  of  outward  energies 

Blending  to  make  the  last  result  called  Man, 

Which  means,  not  this  or  that  philosopher 

Looking  through  beauty  into  blankness,  not 

The  swindler  who  has  sent  his  fruitful  lie 

By  the  last  telegram :  it  means  the  tide 

Of  needs  reciprocal,  toil,  trust,  and  love — 

The  surging  multitude  of  human  claims 

Which  make  ( a  presence  not  to  be  put  by  ' 

Above  the  horizon  of  the  general  soul. 

Is  inward  Reason  shrunk  to  subtleties, 

And  inward  wisdom  pining  passion-starved? — 

The  outward  Reason  has  the  world  in  store, 

Regenerates  passion  with  the  stress  of  want, 

Regenerates  knowledge  with  discovery, 

Shows  sly  rapacious  Self  a  blunderer, 

Widens  dependence,  knits  the  social  whole 

In  sensible  relation  more  defined. 

Do  Boards  and  dirty-handed  millionaires 

Govern  the  planetary  system? — sway 

The  pressure  of  the  Universe? — decide 

That  man  henceforth  shall  retrogress  to  ape, 

Emptied  of  every  sympathetic  thrill 

The  All  has  wrought  in  him  ?  dam  up  henceforth 


378  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOt. 

The  flood  of  human  claims  as  private  force 

To  turn  their  wheels  and  make  a  private  hell 

For  fish-pond  to  their  mercantile  domain? 

What  are  they  but  a  parasitic  growth 

On  the  vast  real  and  ideal  world 

Of  man  and  nature  blent  in  one  divine? 

Why,  take  your  closing  dirge — say  evil  grows 

And  good  is  dwindling ;  science  mere  decay, 

Mere  dissolutions  of  ideal  wholes 

Which  through  the  ages  past  alone  have  made 

The  earth  and  firmament  of  human  faith ; 

Say,  the  small  arc  of  Being  we  call  man 

Is  near  its  mergence,  what  seems  growing  life 

Nought  but  a  hurrying  change  toward  lower  types, 

The  ready  rankness  of  degeneracy. 

Well,  they  who  mourn  for  the  world' s  dying  good 

May  take  their  common  sorrows  for  a  rock, 

On  it  erect  religion  and  a  church, 

A  worship,  rites,  and  passionate  piety — 

The  worship  of  the  Best  though  crucified 

And  God-forsaken  in  its  dying  pangs; 

The  sacramental  rites  of  fellowship 

In  common  woe ;  visions  that  purify 

Through  admiration  and  despairing  love 

Which  keep  their  spiritual  life  intact 

Beneath  the  murderous  clutches  of  disproof 

And  feed  a  martyr -strength." 

"Religion  high!" 

(Rosencranz  here)  "  but  with  communicants 
Few  as  the  cedars  upon  Lebanon — 
A  child  might  count  them.     What  the  world  demands 
Is  faith  coercive  of  the  multitude. " 

"Tush,  Guildenstern,  you  granted  him  too  much," 

Burst  hi  Laertes ;  "  I  will  never  grant 

One  inch  of  law  to  feeble  blasphemies 

Which  hold  no  higher  ratio  to  life — 

Full  vigorous  human  life  that  peopled  earth 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY.  379 

And  wrought  and  fought  and  loved  and  bravely  died — 

Than  the  sick  morning  glooms  of  debauchees. 

Old  nations  breed  old  children,  wizened  babes 

Whose  youth  is  languid  and  incredulous, 

Weary  of  life  without  the  will  to  die ; 

Their  passions  visionary  appetites 

Of  bloodless  spectres  wailing  that  the  world 

For  lack  of  substance  slips  from  out  their  grasp ; 

Their  thoughts  the  withered  husks  of  all  things  dead, 

Holding  no  force  of  germs  instinct  with  life, 

Which  never  hesitates  but  moves  and  grows. 

Yet  hear  them  boast  in  screams  their  godlike  ill, 

Excess  of  knowing !     Fie  on  you,  Rosencranz ! 

You  lend  your  brains  and  fine-dividing  tongue 

For  bass-notes  to  this  shrivelled  crudity, 

This  immature  decrepitude  that  strains 

To  fill  our  ears  and  claim  the  prize  of  strength 

For  mere  unmanliness.     Out  on  them  all! — 

Wits,  puling  minstrels,  and  philosophers, 

Who  living  softly  prate  of  suicide, 

And  suck  the  commonwealth  to  feed  their  ease 

While  they  vent  epigrams  and  threnodies, 

Mocking  or  wailing  all  the  eager  work 

Which  makes  that  public  store  whereon  they  feed. 

Is  wisdom  flattened  sense  and  mere  distaste? 

Why,  any  superstition  warm  with  love, 

Inspired  with  purpose,  wild  with  energy 

That  streams  resistless  through  its  ready  frame, 

Has  more  of  human  truth  within  its  life 

Than  souls  that  look  through  color  into  nought, — 

Whose  brain,  too  unimpassioued  for  delight, 

Has  feeble  ticklings  of  a  vanity 

Which  finds  the  universe  beneath  its  mark, 

And  scorning  the  blue  heavens  as  merely  blue, 

Can  only  say,  '  What  then?  ' — pre-eminent 

In  wondrous  want  of  likeness  to  their  kind, 

Founding  that  worship  of  sterility 

Whose  one  supreme  is  vacillating  Will 

Which  makes  the  Light,  then  says,  '  'Twere  better  not.'  ' 


380  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Here  rash  Laertes  brought  his  Handel-strain 
As  of  some  angry  Polypheme,  to  pause ; 
And  Osric,  shocked  at  ardors  out  of  taste, 
Relieved  the  audience  with  a  tenor  voice 
And  delicate  delivery. 

"  For  me, 

I  range  myself  in  line  with  Rosencranz 
Against  all  schemes,  religious  or  profane, 
That  flaunt  a  Good  as  pretext  for  a  lash 
To  flog  us  all  who  have  the  better  taste, 
Into  conformity,  requiring  me 
At  peril  of  the  thong  and  sharp  disgrace 
To  care  how  mere  Philistines  pass  their  lives ; 
Whether  the  English  pauper-total  grows 
From  one  to  two  before  the  noughts ;  how  far 
Teuton  will  outbreed  Roman ;  if  the  class 
Of  proletaires  will  make  a  federal  band 
To  bind  all  Europe  and  America, 
Throw,  in  their  wrestling,  every  government, 
Snatch  the  world's  purse  and  keep  the  guillotine: 
Or  else  (admitting  these  are  casualties) 
Driving  my  soul  with  scientific  hail 
That  shuts  the  landscape  out  with  particles ; 
Insisting  that  the  Palingenesis 
Means  telegraphs  and  measure  of  the  rate 
At  which  the  stars  move — nobody  knows  where. 
So  far,  my  Rosencranz,  we  are  at  one. 
But  not  when  you  blaspheme  the  life  of  Art, 
The  sweet  perennial  youth  of  Poesy, 
Which  asks  no  logic  but  its  sensuous  growth, 
No  right  but  loveliness;  which  fearless  strolls 
Betwixt  the  burning  mountain  and  the  sea, 
Reckless  of  earthquake  and  the  lava  stream, 
Filling  its  hour  with  beauty.     It  knows  nought 
Of  bitter  strife,  denial,  grim  resolve, 
Sour  resignation,  busy  emphasis 
Of  fresh  illusions  named  the  new-born  True, 
Old  Error's  latest  child;  but  as  a  lake 
Images  all  things,  yet  within  its  depths 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST-PARTY.  381 

Dreams  them  all  lovelier — thrills  with  sound 

And  makes  a  harp  of  plenteous  liquid  chords — 

So  Art  or  Poesy :  we  its  votaries 

Are  the  Olympians,  fortunately  born 

From  the  elemental  mixture :  'tis  our  lot 

To  pass  more  swiftly  than  the  Delian  God, 

But  still  the  earth  breaks  into  flowers  for  us, 

And  mortal  sorrows  when  they  reach  our  ears 

Are  dying  falls  to  melody  divine. 

Hatred,  war,  vice,  crime,  sin,  those  human  storms, 

Cyclones,  floods,  what  you  will — outbursts  of  force — 

Feed  art  with  contrast,  give  the  grander  touch 

To  the  master's  pencil  and  the  poet's  song, 

Serve  as  Vesuvian  fires  or  navies  tossed 

On  yawning  waters,  which  when  viewed  afar 

Deepen  the  calm  sublime  of  those  choice  souls 

Who  keep  the  heights  of  poesy  and  turn 

A  fleckless  mirror  to  the  various  world, 

Giving  its  many-named  and  fitful  flux 

An  imaged,  harmless,  spiritual  life, 

With  pure  selection,  native  to  art's  frame, 

Of  beauty  only,  save  its  minor  scale 

Of  ill  and  pain  to  give  the  ideal  joy 

A  keener  edge.     This  is  a  mongrel  globe ; 

All  finer  being  wrought  from  its  coarse  earth 

Is  but  accepted  privilege :  what  else 

Your  boasted  virtue,  which  proclaims  itself 

A  good  above  the  average  consciousness? 

Nature  exists  by  partiality 

(Each  planet's  poise  must  carry  two  extremes 

With  verging  breadths  of  minor  wretchedness) : 

We  are  her  favorites  and  accept  our  wings. 

For  your  accusal,  Rosehcranz,  that  art 

Shares  in  the  dread  and  weakness  of  the  time, 

I  hold  it  null ;  since  art  or  poesy  pure, 

Being  blameless  by  all  standards  save  her  own, 

Takes  no  account  of  modern  or  antique 

In  morals,  science,  or  philosophy : 

No  dull  elenchus  makes  a  yoke  for  her. 


382  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

Whose  law  and  measure  are  the  sweet  consent 
Of  sensibilities  that  move  apart 
From  rise  or  fall  of  systems,  states,  or  creeds — 
Apart  from  what  Philistines  call  man's  weal." 

"  Ay,  we  all  know  those  votaries  of  the  Muse 
Kavished  with  singing  till  they  quite  forgot 
Their  manhood,  sang,  and  gaped,  and  took  no  food, 
Then  died  of  emptiness,  and  for  reward 
Lived  on  as  grasshoppers  " — Laertes  thus : 
But  then  he  checked  himself  as  one  who  feels 
His  muscles  dangerous,  and  Guildenstern 
Filled  up  the  pause  with  calmer  confidence. 

"  You  use  your  wings,  my  Osric,  poise  yourself 

Safely  outside  all  reach  of  argument, 

Then  dogmatize  at  will  (a  method  known 

To  ancient  women  and  philosophers, 

Nay,  to  Philistines  whom  you  most  abhor) ; 

Else,  could  an  arrow  reach  you,  I  should  ask 

Whence  came  taste,  beauty,  sensibilities 

Refined  to  preference  infallible? 

Doubtless,  ye' re  gods — these  odors  ye  inhale, 

A  sacrificial  scent.      But  how,  I  pray, 

Are  odors  made,  if  not  by  gradual  change 

Of  sense  or  substance?     Is  your  beautiful 

A  seedless,  rootless  flower,  or  has  it  grown 

With  human  growth,  which  means  the  rising  sum 

Of  human  struggle,  order,  knowledge? — sense 

Trained  to  a  fuller  record,  more  exact — 

To  truer  guidance  of  each  passionate  force? 

Get  me  your  roseate  flesh  without  the  blood; 

Get  fine  aromas  without  structure  wrought 

From  simpler  being  into  manifold: 

Then  and  then  only  flaunt  your  Beautiful 

As  what  can  live  apart  from  thought,  creeds,  states, 

Which  means  life's  structure.     Osric,  I  beseech — 

The  infallible  should  be  more  catholic — 

Join  in  a  war-dance  with  the  cannibals, 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST  PARTY.  383 

*  Hear  Chinese  music,  love  a  face  tattooed, 
Give  adoration  to  a  pointed  skull, 
And  think  the  Hindu  Siva  looks  divine : 
'Tis  art,  'tis  poesy.     Say  you  object: 
How  came  you  by  that  lofty  dissidence, 
If  not  through  changes  in  the  social  man 
Widening  his  consciousness  from  Here  and  Now 
To  larger  wholes  beyond  the  reach  of  sense ; 
Controlling  to  a  fuller  harmony 
The  thrill  of  passion  and  the  rule  of  fact; 
And  paling  false  ideals  in  the  light 
Of  full-rayed  sensibilities  which  blend 
Truth  and  desire?     Taste,  beauty,  what  are  they 
But  the  soul's  choice  toward  perfect  bias  wrought 
By  finer  balance  of  a  fuller  growth — 
Sense  brought  to  subtlest  metamorphosis 
Through  love,  thought,  joy — the  general  human  store 
Which  grows  from  all  life's  functions?     As  the  plant 
Holds  its  corolla,  purple,  delicate, 
Solely  as  outflush  of  that  energy 
Which  moves  transformingly  in  root  and  branch." 

Guildenstern  paused,  and  Hamlet  quivering 

Since  Osric  spoke,  in  transit  imminent 

From  catholic  striving  into  laxity, 

Ventured  his  word.     "  Seems  to  me,  Guildenstern, 

Your  argument,  though  shattering  Osric' s  point 

That  sensibilities  can  move  apart 

From  social  order,  yet  has  not  annulled 

His  thesis  that  the  life  of  poesy 

(Admitting  it  must  grow  from  out  the  whole) 

Has  separate  functions,  a  transfigured  realm 

Freed  from  the  rigors  of  the  practical, 

Where  what  is  hidden  from  the  grosser  world — 

Stormed  down  by  roar  of  engines  and  the  shouts 

Of  eager  concourse — rises  beauteous 

As  voice  of  water-drops  in  sapphire  caves ; 

A  realm  where  finest  spirits  have  free  sway 

In  exquisite  selection,  uncontrolled 


384  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

By  hard  material  necessity 

Of  cause  and  consequence.     For  you  will  grant 

The  Ideal  has  discoveries  which  ask 

No  test,  no  faith,  save  that  we  joy  in  them : 

A  new-found  continent  with  spreading  lands 

Where  pleasure  charters  all,  where  virtue,  rank, 

Use,  right,  and  truth  have  but  one  name,  Delight. 

Thus  Art's  creations,  when  etherealized 

To  least  admixture  of  the  grosser  fact 

Delight  may  stamp  as  highest. " 

"Possible!" 

Said  Guildenstern,  with  touch  of  weariness. 
"  But  then  we  might  dispute  of  what  is  gross, 
What  high,  what  low. " 

"  Nay, "  said  Laertes,  "  ask 

The  mightiest  makers  who  have  reigned,  still  reign 
Within  the  ideal  realm.     See  if  their  thought 
Be  drained  of  practice  and  the  thick  warm  blood 
Of  hearts  that  beat  in  action  various 
Through  the  wide  drama  of  the  struggling  world. 
Good-bye,  Horatio." 

Each  now  said  "  Good-bye." 
Such  breakfast,  such  beginning  of  the  day 
Is  more  than  half  the  whole.     The  sun  was  hot 
On  southward  branches  of  the  meadow  elms, 
The  shadows  slowly  farther  crept  and  veered 
Like  changing  memories,  and  Hamlet  strolled 
Alone  and  dubious  on  the  empurpled  path 
Between  the  waving  grasses  of  new  June 
Close  by  the  stream  where  well-compacted  boats 
Were  moored  or  moving  with  a  lazy  creak 
To  the  soft  dip  of  oars.      All  sounds  were  light 
As  tiny  silver  bells  upon  the  robes 
Of  hovering  silence.     Birds  made  twitterings 
That  seemed  but  Silence  self  o'erfull  of  love. 


A  COLLEGE  BREAKFAST  PARTY.  385 

'Twas  invitation  all  to  sweet  repose; 

And  Hamlet,  drowsy  with  the  mingled  draughts 

Of  cider  and  conflicting  sentiments, 

Chose  a  green  couch  and  watched  with  half -closed  eyes 

The  meadow-road,  the  stream  and  dreamy  lights, 

Until  they  merged  themselves  in  sequence  strange 

With  undulating  ether,  time,  the  soul, 

The  will  supreme,  the  individual  claim, 

The  social  Ought,  the  lyrist's  liberty, 

Democritus,  Pythagoras,  in  talk 

With  Anselm,  Darwin,  Comte,  and  Schopenhauer, 

The  poets  rising  slow  from  out  their  tombs 

Summoned  as  arbiters — that  border-world 

Of  dozing,  ere  the  sense  is  fully  locked. 

And  then  he  dreamed  a  dream  so  luminous 
He  woke  (he  says)  convinced;  but  what  it  taught 
Withholds  as  yet.     Perhaps  those  graver  shades 
Admonished  him  that  visions  told  in  haste 
Part  with  their  virtues  to  the  squandering  lips 
And  leave  the  soul  in  wider  emptiness. 

April,  1874. 
25 


TWO   LOVERS. 


Two  lovers  by  a  moss-grown  spring : 
They  leaned  soft  cheeks  together  there, 
Mingled  the  dark  and  sunny  hair, 
And  heard  the  wooing  thrushes  sing. 
0  budding  time! 
G  love's  blest  prime! 

Two  wedded  from  the  portal  stept : 
The  bells  made  happy  carollings, 
The  air  was  soft  as  fanning  wings, 
White  petals  on  the  pathway  slept. 

O  pure-eyed  bride! 
O  tender  pride ! 

Two  faces  o'er  a  cradle  bent : 

Two  hands  above  the  head  were  locked; 
These  pressed  each  other  while  they  rocked, 
Those  watched  a  life  that  love  had  sent. 
O  solemn  hour! 
0  hidden  power! 

Two  parents  by  the  evening  fire : 
The  red  light  fell  about  their  knees 
On  heads  that  rose  by  slow  degrees 
Like  buds  upon  the  lily  spire. 

O  patient  life! 
O  tender  strife! 

The  two  still  sr,t  together  there, 

The  red  light  shone  about  their  knees  j 


1  Two  lovers  by  a  moss-grown  spring, 
They  leaned  soft  cheeks  together  there."— Page  386. 

Eliut—Two  Lovers. 


TWO  LOVERS.  387 

• 

But  all  the  heads  by  slow  degrees 
Had  gone  and  left  that  lonely  pair. 
O  voyage  fast! 
O  vanished  past! 

The  red  light  shone  upon  the  floor 

And  made  the  space  between  them  wide; 
They  drew  their  chairs  up  side  by  side, 
Their  pale  cheeks  joined,  and  said,  "Once  more!" 
O  memories! 
O  past  that  is! 
1866. 


SELF   AND   LIFE. 


SELF. 

CHANGEFUL  comrade,  Life  of  mine, 

Before  we  two  must  part, 
I  will  tell  thee,  thou  shalt  say, 

What  thou  hast  been  and  art. 
Ere  I  lose  my  hold  of  thee 
Justify  thyself  to  me. 

LIFE. 

I  was  thy  warmth  upon  thy  mother's  knee 

When  light  and  love  within  her  eyes  were  one; 
We  laughed  together  by  the  laurel-tree, 

Culling  warm  daisies  'neath  the  sloping  sun ; 
We  heard  the  chickens'  lazy  croon, 

Where  the  trellised  woodbines  grew, 
And  all  the  summer  afternoon 
Mystic  gladness  o'er  thee  threw. 
Was  it  person?     Was  it  thing? 
Was  it  touch  or  whispering? 
It  was  bliss  and  it  was  I : 
Bliss  was  what  thou  knew'st  me  by. 

SELF. 

Soon  I  knew  thee  more  by  Fear 

And  sense  of  what  was  not, 
Haunting  all  I  held  most  dear — 

I  had  a  double  lot : 
Ardor,  cheated  with  alloy, 
Wept  the  more  for  dreams  of  joy. 


SELF  AND  LIFE.  389 


LIFE. 

Remember  how  thy  ardor's  magic  sense 

Made  poor  things  rich  to  thee  and  small  things  great; 
How  hearth  and  garden,  field  and  bushy  fence, 
Were  thy  own  eager  love  incorporate ; 

And  how  the  solemn,  splendid  Past 

O'er  thy  early  widened  earth 
Made  grandeur,  as  on  sunset  cast 
Dark  elms  near  take  mighty  girth. 
Hands  and  feet  were  tiny  still 
When  we  knew  the  historic  thrill, 
Breathed  deep  breath  in  heroes  dead, 
Tasted  the  immortals'  bread. 

SELF. 

Seeing  what  I  might  have  been 

Reproved  the  thing  I  was, 
Smoke  on  heaven's  clearest  sheen, 

The  speck  within  the  rose. 
By  revered  ones'  frailties  stung 
Reverence  was  with  anguish  wrung. 

LIFE. 

But  all  thy  anguish  and  thy  discontent 

Was  growth  of  mine,  the  elemental  strife 
Towards  feeling  manifold  with  vision  blent 
To  wider  thought :  I  was  no  vulgar  life 
That,  like  the  water-mirrored  ape, 

Not  discerns  the  thing  it  sees, 
Nor  knows  its  own  in  others'  shape, 
Railing,  scorning,  at  its  ease. 
Half  man's  truth  must  hidden  lie 
If  unlit  by  Sorrow's  eye. 
I  by  Sorrow  wrought  in  thee 
Willing  pain  of  ministry. 


POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 


SELF. 

Slowly  was  the  lesson  taught 

Through  passion,  error,  care; 
Insight  was  with  loathing  fraught 

And  effort  with  despair. 
Written  on  the  wall  I  saw 
"  Bow !  "  I  knew,  not  loved,  the  law. 

LIFE. 

But  then  I  brought  a  love  that  wrote  within 
The  law  of  gratitude,  and  made  thy  heart 
Beat  to  the  heavenly  tune  of  seraphin 
Whose  only  joy  in  having  is,  to  impart : 

Till  thou,  poor  Self — despite  thy  ire, 

Wrestling  'gainst  my  mingled  share, 
Thy  faults,  hard  falls,  and  vain  desire 
Still  to  be  what  others  were — 
Filled,  o'erflowed  with  tenderness 
Seeming  more  as  thou  wert  less, 
Knew  me  through  that  anguish  past 
As  a  fellowship  more  vast. 

SELF. 

Yea,  I  embrace  thee,  changeful  Life! 

Far-sent,  unchosen  mate ! 
Self  and  thou,  no  more  at  strife, 

Shall  wed  in  hallowed  state. 
Willing  spousals  now  shall  prove 
Life  is  justified  by  love. 


SWEET  EVENINGS  COME  AND  GO, 
LOVE." 


"La  noche  buena  se  viene, 
La  noche  buena  se  va, 
Y  nosotros  nos  iremos 
Y  no  volveremos  mas." 

— Old  Villancico. 

SWEET  evenings  como  and  go,  love, 

They  came  and  went  of  yore : 
This  evening  of  our  life,  love, 

Shall  go  and  come  no  more. 

When  we  have  passed  away,  love, 
All  things  will  keep  their  name; 

But  yet  no  life  on  earth,  love, 
With  ours  will  be  the  same. 

The  daisies  will  be  there,  love, 
The  stars  in  heaven  will  shine: 

I  shall  not  feel  thy  wish,  love, 
Nor  thou  my  hand  in  thine. 

A  better  time  will  come,  love, 

And  better  souls  be  born : 
I  would  not  be  the  best,  love, 

To  leave  thee  now  folorn. 


THE  DEATH  OF  MOSES. 


MOSES,  who  spake  with  God  as  with  his  friend, 
And  ruled  his  people  with  the  twofold  power 
Of  wisdom  that  can  dare  and  still  be  meek, 
Was  writing  his  last  word,  the  sacred  name 
Unutterable  of  that  Eternal  Will 
Which  was  and  is  and  evermore  shall  be. 
Yet  was^  his  task  not  finished,  for  the  flock 
Needed  its  shepherd  and  -the  life-taught  sage 
Leaves  no  successor ;  but  to  chosen  men, 
The  rescuers  and  guides  of  Israel, 
A  death  was  given  called  the  Death  of  Grace, 
Which  freed  them  from  the  burden  of  the  flesh 
But  left  them  rulers  of  the  multitude 
And  loved  companions  of  the  lonely.     This 
Was  God's  last  gift  to  Moses,  this  the  hour 
When  soul  must  part  from  self  and  be  but  soul. 

God  spake  to  Gabriel,  the  messenger 

Of  mildest  death  that  draws  the  parting  life 

Gently,  as  when  a  little  rosy  child 

Lifts  up  its  lips  from  off  the  bowl  of  milk 

And  so  draws  forth  a  curl  that  dipped  its  gold 

In  the  soft  white— thus  Gabriel  draws  the  soul. 

"  Go  bring  the  soul  of  Moses  unto  me !  " 

And  the  awe- stricken  angel  answered,  "  Lord, 

How  shall  I  dare  to  take  his  life  who  lives 

Sole  of  his  kind,  not  to  be  likened  once 

In  all  the  generations  of  the  earth?  " 


THE  DEATH  OF  MOSES.  393 

Then  God  called  Michael,  him  of  pensive  brow, 
Suow-vest  and  flaming  sword,  who  knows  and  acts : 
"  Go  bring  the  spirit  of  Moses  unto  me !  " 
But  Michael  with  such  grief  as  angels  feel, 
Loving  the  mortals  whom  they  succor,  pled : 
"  Almighty,  spare  me;  it  was  I  who  taught 
Thy  servant  Moses;  he  is  part  of  me 
As  I  of  thy  deep  secrets,  knowing  them." 

Then  God  called  Zamael,  the  terrible. 

The  angel  of  fierce  death,  of  agony 

That  comes  in  battle  and  in  pestilence 

Remorseless,  sudden  or  with  lingering  throes. 

And  Zamael,  his  raiment  and  broad  wings 

Blood-tinctured,  the  dark  lustre  of  his  eyes 

Shrouding  the  red,  fell  like  the  gathering  night 

Before  the  prophet.     But  that  radiance 

Won  from  the  heavenly  presence  in  the  mount 

Gleamed  on  the  prophet's  brow  and  dazzling  pierced 

Its  conscious  opposite :  the  angel  turned 

His  murky  gaze  aloof  and  inly  said : 

"An  angel  this,  deathless  to  angel's  stroke." 

But  Moses  felt  the  subtly  nearing  dark : — 

"  Who  are  thou  ?  and  what  wilt  thou  ?  "  Zamael  then : 

"I  am  God's  reaper;  through  the  fields  of  life 

I  gather  ripened  and  unripened  souls 

Both  willing  and  unwilling.     And  I  come 

Now  to  reap  thee."     But  Moses  cried, 

Firm  as  a  seer  who  waits  the  trusted  sign : 

"  Reap  thou  the  fruitless  plant  and  common  herb — 

Not  him  who  from  the  womb  was  sanctified 

To  teach  the  law  of  purity  and  love. " 

And  Zamael  baffled  from  his  errand  fled. 

But  Moses,  pausing,  in  the  air  serene 
Heard  now  that  mystic  whisper,  far  yet  near, 
The  all-penetrating  Voice,  that  said  to  him, 
*'  Moses,  the  hour  is  come  and  thou  must  die." 


394  POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

"  Lord,  I  obey ;  but  thou  rememberest 

How  thou,  Ineffable,  didst  take  me  once 

Within  thy  orb  of  light  untouched  by  death.'' 

Then  the  voice  answered,  "  Be  no  more  afraid : 

With  me  shall  be  thy  death  and  burial." 

So  Moses  waited,  ready  now  to  die. 

And  the  Lord  came,  invisible  as  a  thought, 

Three  angels  gleaming  on  his  secret  track, 

Prince  Michael,  Zagael,  Gabriel,  charged  to  guard 

The  soul  forsaken  body  as  it  fell 

And  bear  it  to  the  hidden  sepulchre 

Denied  for  ever  to  the  search  of  man. 

And  the  Voice  said  to  Moses :  "  Close  thine  eyes. " 

He  closed  them.     "  Lay  thine  hand  upon  thine  heart, 

And  draw  thy  feet  together. "     He  obeyed. 

And  the  Lord  said,  "  0  spirit !  child  of  mine ! 

A  hundred  years  and  twenty  thou  hast  dwelt 

Within  this  tabernacle  wrought  of  clay. 

This  is  the  end :  come  forth  and  flee  to  heaven. " 

But  the  grieved  soul  with  plaintive  pleading  cried, 

"  I  love  this  body  with  a  clinging  love : 

The  courage  fails  me,  Lord,  to  part  from  it." 

"  0  child,  come  forth !  for  thou  shalt  dwell  with  me 
About  the  immortal  throne  where  seraphs  joy 
In  growing  vision  and  in  growing  love." 

Yet  hesitating,  fluttering,  like  the  bird 

With  young  wing  weak  and  dubious,  the  soul 

Stayed.     But  behold !  upon  the  death-dewed  lips 

A  kiss  descended,  pure,  unspeakable — 

The  bodiless  Love  without  embracing  Love 

That  lingered  in  the  body,  drew  it  forth 

With  heavenly  strength  and  carried  it  to  heaven. 

But  now  beneath  the  sky  the  watchers  all, 

Angels  that  keep  the  homes  of  Israel 

Or  on  high  purpose  wander  o'er  the  world 


THE  DEATH  OF  MOSES.  395 

Leading  the  Gentiles,  felt  a  dark  eclipse : 

The  greatest  ruler  among  men  was  gone. 

And  from  the  westward  sea  was  heard  a  wail, 

A  dirge  as  from  the  isles  of  Javanim, 

Crying,  "  Who  is  now  left  upon  the  earth 

Like  him  to  teach  the  right  and  smite  the  wrong?  " 

And  from  the  East,  far  o'er  the  Syrian  waste, 

Came  slowlier,  sadlier,  the  answering  dirge : 

"  No  prophet  like  him  lives  or  shall  arise 

In  Israel  or  the  world  for  evermore." 

But  Israel  waited,  looking  toward  the  mount, 

Till  with  the  deepening  eve  the  elders  came 

Saying,  "  His  burial  is  hid  with  God. 

We  stood  far  off  and  saw  the  angels  lift 

His  corpse  aloft  until  they  seemed  a  star 

That  burnt  itself  away  within  the  sky. " 

The  people  answered  with  mute  orphaned  gaze 
Looking  for  what  had  vanished  evermore. 
Then  through  the  gloom  without  them  and  within 
The  spirit's  shaping  light,  mysterious  speech, 
Invisible  Will  wrought  clear  in  sculptured  sound, 
The  thought-begotten  daughter  of  the  voice, 
Thrilled  on  their  listening  sense :  "  He  has  no  tomb. 
He  dwells  not  with  you  dead,  but  lives  as  Law." 


ARION. 


(HEROD.— I,  24.) 

ARION,  whose  melodic  soul 
Taught  the  dithyramb  to  roll 

Like  forest  fires,  and  sing 

Olympian  suffering, 

Had  carried  his  diviner  lore 
From  Corinth  to  the  sister  shore 

Where  Greece  could  largelier.  be, 

Branching  o'er  Italy. 

Then  weighted  with  his  glorious  name 
And  bags  of  gold,  aboard  he  came 
'Mid  harsh  seafaring  men 
To  Corinth  bound  again. 

The  sailors  eyed  the  bags  and  thought : 
"  The  gold  is  good,  the  man  is  nought — 
And  who  shall  track  the  wave 
That  opens  for  his  grave?  " 

With  brawny  arms  and  cruel  eyes 
They  press  around  him  where  he  lies 
In  sleep  beside  his  lyre, 
Hearing  the  Muses  quire. 

He  waked  and  saw  this  wolf -faced  Death 

Breaking  the  dream  that  tilled  his  breath 

With  inspiration  strong 

Of  yet  unchanted  song. 


ARION.  397 

"  Take,  take  my  gold  and  let  me  live !  " 
He  prayed,  as  kings  do  when  they  give 

Their  all  with  royal  will, 

Holding  born  kingship  still. 

To  rob  the  living  they  refuse, 
One  death  or  other  he  must  choose, 

Either  the  watery  pall 

Or  wounds  and  burial. 

"  My  solemn  robe  then  let  me  don, 
Give  me  high  space  to  stand  upon, 

That  dying  I  may  pour 

A  song  unsung  before." 

It  pleased  them  well  to  grant  this  prayer, 
To  hear  for  nought  how  it  might  fare 

With  men  who  paid  their  gold 

For  what  a  poet  sold. 

In  flowing  stole,  his  eyes  aglow 
With  inward  fire,  he  neared  the  prow 

And  took  his  god-like  stand, 

The  cithara  in  hand. 

The  wolfish  men  all  shrank  aloof, 
And  feared  this  singer  might  be  proof 

Against  their  murderous  power, 

After  his  lyric  hour. 

But  he,  in  liberty  of  song, 
Fearless  of  death  or  other  wrong, 

With  full  spondaic  toll 

Poured  forth  his  mighty  soul : 

Poured  forth  the  strain  his  dream  had  taught^ 
A  iiorne  with  lofty  passion  fraught 

Such  as  makes  battles  won 

On  fields  of  Marathon. 


398  POEMS  OP  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

The  last  long  vowels  trembled  then 
As  awe  within  those  wolfish  men : 

They  said,  with  mutual  stare, 
Some  god  was  present  there. 

But  lo!  Arion  leaped  on  high          • 
Ready,  his  descant  done,  to  die; 

Not  asking,  "  Is  it  well?  " 
Like  a  pierced  eagle  fell. 


"O  MAY  I  JOIN  THE  CHOIR 
INVISIBLE." 


Longum  ittud  tempus,   quum  non  ero,  magis  me  movet,  qunm  hoc 
exiguum. — CICERO,  ad  Att.,  xii.  18. 

O  MAY  I  join  the  choir  invisible 

Of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 

In  minds  made  better  by  their  presence:  live 

In  pulses  stirred  to  generosity. 

In  deeds  of  daring  rectitude,  in  scorn 

For  miserable  aims  that  end  with  self, 

In  thoughts  sublime  that  pierce  the  night  like  stars, 

And  with  their  mild  persistence  urge  man's  search 

To  vaster  issues. 

So  to  live  is  heaven : 
To  make  undying  music  in  the  world, 
Breathing  as  beauteous  order  that  controls 
With  growing  sway  the  growing  life  of  man. 
So  we  inherit  that  sweet  purity 
For  which  we  struggled,  failed,  and  agonized 
With  widening  retrospect  that  bred  despair. 
Rebellious  flesh  that  would  not  be  subdued, 
A  vicious  parent  shaming  still  its  child 
Poor  anxious  penitence,  is  quick  dissolved; 
Its  discords,  quenched  by  meeting  harmonies, 
Die  in  the  large  and  charitable  air. 
And  all  our  rarer,  better,  truer  self, 
That  sobbed  religiously  in  yearning  song, 
That  watched  to  ease  the  burden  of  the  world, 
Laboriously  tracing  what  must  be, 
And  what  may  yet  be  better — saw  within 


400  POEMS  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

A  worthier  image  for  the  sanctuary, 
And  shaped  it  forth  before  the  multitude 
Divinely  human,  raising  worship  so 
To  higher  reverence  more  mixed  with  love- 
That  better  self  shall  live  till  human  Time 
Shall  fold  its  eyelids,  and  the  human  sky 
Be  gathered  like  a  scroll  within  the  tomb 
Unread  for  ever. 

This  is  life  to  come, 

Which  martyred  men  have  made  more  glorious 
For  us  who  strive  to  follow.     May  I  reach 
That  purest  heaven,  be  to  other  souls 
The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great  agony, 
Enkindle  generous  ardor,  feed  pure  love, 
Beget  the  smiles  that  have  no  cruelty — 
Be  the  sweet  presence  of  a  good  diffused, 
And  in  diffusion  ever  more  intense. 
So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible 
Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world. 

1867. 


"""•  •'  ii    iii  111    111  in  mi  111 1  mi  nun 

3  1970008696368 


MAR  18  1986 


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